THE     WHITE     GATE 


THE    WHITE   GATE 


By 
WARWICK    DEEPING 


NEW    YORK 
ROBERT    M.    McBRIDE    &    COMPANY 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

THE  WHITE  GATE 

BY  WARWICK  DEEPING 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

OF  AMERICA 
FIRST  EDITION 


URL 
SRLF, 


TO 
MY  WIFE 


OHN  CUTHBERTSON  made  his  way  down  the  har- 
bour pier  at  Dover,  looking  like  a  big  brown  bear  in  his  rough 
ulster.  There  was  expectancy  in  the  kind  blue  eyes  set  wide 
apart  in  the  fresh-coloured  face.  Like  many  big  men,  John 
Cuthbertson  had  a  shy  and  silent  dignity.  He  moved  slowly, 
spoke  slowly,  and  smiled  with  his  eyes  when  smaller  people 
would  have  laughed. 

A  March  sky  hurried  overhead,  and  the  sea  kept  up  a  mo- 
notonous splashing  on  the  other  side  of  the  great  grey  break- 
water. Landwards,  Dover  Castle  stood  out  dimly  on  a 
dim  hill,  the  grass  and  the  chalk  looking  sad  and  soiled 
under  the  grey  sky.  The  Calais  boat  was  in.  John  Cuthbert- 
son could  see  her  masts  above  the  roofs  of  the  shelters  on  the 
quay. 

"I'm  late,  I  suppose." 

The  boat, train  came  steaming  towards  him,  and  he  stood 
to  watch  it  pass.  People  were  settling  themselves  there,  read- 
ing books  and  papers,  or  looking  with  tired  and  apathetic 
faces  at  nothing  in  particular.  Cuthbertson  had  a  glimpse  of  a 

9 


io  THE  WHITE  GATE 

child  holding  a  Teddy  bear  against  a  window,  as  though  de- 
termined that  the  good  beast  should  lose  no  chances. 

The  red  train  swept  by.  He  smiled  and  passed  on. 

Most  of  the  people  had  left  by  the  boat  train,  and  the  long 
platform  on  the  quay  was  left  to  the  jerseyed  figures  of  the 
harbour  porters.  Just  beyond  the  small  buffet  Cuthbertson  saw 
two  people  walking  towards  him — a  tall  man  with  a  lean, 
alert  face  and  a  coal-black  beard  cut  to  a  point  and  a  little 
old  woman  in  black.  The  man  was  carrying  a  brown  basket. 
He  had  given  an  arm  to  the  little  old  lady,  and  was  looking 
down  at  her  with  an  air  of  understanding  and  of  sympathy. 

A  glimmer  of  surprise,  humour,  and  affection  shone  in 
John  Cuthbertson's  eyes.  The  two  were  coming  along  very 
slowly,  the  little  figure  in  black  rather  tottery  and  forlorn. 
The  yellow  face  under  the  black  bonnet  had  sunken  eyes  and 
lines  of  pain. 

"It's  so  kind  of  you.  I  thought  I  was  going  to  die.  And 
I'm  giving  you  such  a  lot  of  trouble.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  go 
any  faster." 

The  man  with  the  short  black  beard  looked  down  at  her 
consolingly. 

"There's  no  hurry.  Just  take  your  time.  Now,  what  do  you 
say  to  a  plate  of  soup?" 

"I  couldn't  touch  it — I  really  couldn't." 

"No?  Well,  just  take  your  time.  The  fresh  air  will  make  you 
feel  better." 

He  glanced  up  suddenly,  and  his  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  the 
big  man  in  the  brown  ulster.  A  flash  of  recognition  leapt  into 
them.  The  hearts  of  the  two  men  seemed  to  come  together  in 
that  look. 

"Old  man,  this  is  good  of  you." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  11 

"You  knew  I  should  come." 

"You  see,  I  have  a  friend  here  who  wants  to  get  to  the 
harbour  station.  You  won't  mind  going  slowly?" 

Cuthbertson  took  off  his  hat,  swung  into  line,  and  offered 
to  carry  the  basket. 

"Let  me  take  it,  old  man." 

"It's  all  right;  I  can  manage.  My  hand  luggage  has  gone 
on  by  porter.  They  tell  me  I  shall  have  to  wait  an  hour  to  get 
my  baggage  through  the  Customs." 

So  these  two  tall  fellows  went  at  a  snail's  pace  towards  the 
town,  sheltering  the  little  black  figure  that  shuffled  between 
them.  It  was  a  patient  and  a  kindly  escort,  and  the  exhausted 
face  looked  grateful. 

"How  do  you  feel  now?" 

They  had  reached  the  space  before  the  "Lord  Warden," 
and  the  sea  wind  blew  in  strongly  and  lifted  the  old  lady's 
black  bonnet. 

"Better,  thank  you.  It  doesn't  go  up  and  down  so  much. 
I  can't  say  how  kind  you've  been.  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done " 

"It  was  a  very  rough  crossing,  you  know.  Would  you  like 
to  go  to  the  waiting-room?" 

"Yes,  please." 

They  took  her  there,  still  walking  very  slowly.  The  yellow 
face  had  lost  some  of  its  deathliness.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes 
as  she  looked  up  at  the  man  with  the  black  beard. 

"I'm  so  very  grateful." 

He  carried  her  basket  into  the  waiting-room,  and  put  it 
down  on  one  of  the  seats. 

"Good-bye.  I  hope  you  will  soon  feel  all  right.  I  shall  be 
hanging  about  the  station  for  an  hour  or  so,  so  if  you  want 


12  THE  WHITE  GATE 

anything  send  a  porter  to  hunt  me  out — a  man  with  a  black 
beard." 

"I  don't  know  why  people  should  be  so  kind." 

"Why?  Oh,  because  we  all  need  it.  Good-bye." 

Cuthbertson  was  waiting  for  him  on  the  platform.  They 
smiled  at  each  other,  and  by  some  common  impulse  shook 
hands. 

"Old  man,  how  are  you?" 

"Better — pounds  better." 

"Are  you  going  to  leave  your  friend  there?" 

"Yes,  poor  old  soul.  I  only  picked  her  up  on  the  quay;  she 
could  hardly  stand,  or  ask  anybody  for  anything.  Whence — 
and  whither?  Let's  go  in  here  and  get  something  to  eat." 

They  turned  into  the  refreshment  room,  and  sat  down  at 
the  table  that  was  farthest  from  the  bar.  But  talking  rather 
than  eating  seemed  to  be  the  importunate  need  of  the  mo- 
ment. They  gave  casual  orders  to  the  casual  young  woman 
behind  the  counter,  and  then  forgot  everything  in  being  with 
each  other.  For  these  two  men  had  loved  with  the  rare,  rich 
love  of  comrades  in  arms. 

"Yes,  you  look  more  like  your  old  self." 

Cuthbertson  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  examined  Skelton 
with  shrewd  and  affectionate  eyes.  He  had  spoken  of  the  old 
self,  and  the  Richard  Skelton  of  two  years  ago  stood  out  like 
some  magnificent  portrait  hung  in  a  great  room  where  the 
evening  sunlight  entered.  The  lean,  alert,  sensitive  face,  with 
the  deep  blue  eyes  that  looked  black  in  certain  lights.  The 
straightness  of  the  mobile  mouth.  The  proud  holding  of  the 
head.  He  had  loved  this  man,  loved  him  for  his  forcefulness, 
his  fine  flashes  of  anger,  his  moments  of  tenderness,  his  sparkles 
of  half-devilish  humour.  That  rarest  of  rare  things — a  per- 


THE  WHITE  GATE  13 

sonality,  an  aliveness  so  brilliant  that  it  had  made  weaker  men 
seem  but  half  awake. 

Then  that  tragedy  of  overwork,  when  he,  John  Cuthbertson, 
had  spent  half  his  days  with  a  dying  wife,  and  his  comrade 
in  arms  had  done  the  fighting.  That  breakup  of  a  man  whose 
creed  had  been  to  spend  all  of  himself — or  nothing!  Skel ton's 
face  still  showed  the  lines  of  strain,  and  his  eyes  had  not 
wholly  lost  their  restlessness.  Cuthbertson  noticed  these  things. 
He  knew  how  the  man  had  suffered. 

"I  had  your  last  letter.  You  did  not  say  anything  about  the 
beard." 

Their  eyes  met  across  the  table. 

"Old  man,  I  was  afraid  of  my  razors." 

"Nonsense!  You?" 

"It's  the  truth.  No  one  understands  this  sort  of  thing  until 
they  have  been  through  it." 

A  fierce  light  came  into  his  eyes  and  his  nostrils  quivered. 

"It  sounds  preposterous,  hysterical,  to  those  who  haven't 
been  down  into  the  depths.  Three  years  ago  I  should  have 
had  something  like  a  sneer  for  people  whose  nerve  gave  out. 
Now — I  know.  Everything  wrong,  inside  and  out,  and  your 
soul  like  an  empty  wine-skin.  And  the  nights!  Good  God! 
Old  man,  I  used  to  lie  awake  in  my  cabin  and  say  over  and 
over  again,  'You  are  not  going  to  do  it — you  are  not  going  to 
play  the  coward.'  Well,  that's  passed." 

Cuthbertson  drummed  on  the  table  with  his  fingers.  His 
eyes  were  very  soft  for  a  man's. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  I  have  kept  everything  open. 
Things  are  going  well." 

"That's  like  you.  But  I  am  not  coming  back  yet;  it  wouldn't 
be  fair  to  you  if  I  did.  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  London.  It 


14  THE  WHITE  GATE 

would  put  me  in  a  fever.  You  know,  I  can't  lounge  and  watch 
other  people  doing  things.  I  must  be  fighting  if  I  am  in  the 
thick  of  it." 

"Have  you  made  any  plans?" 

"I  am  going  to  have  a  year  in  the  country — perhaps  more. 
Cockney  or  peasant,  I  couldn't  stand  a  provincial  town.  I  shall 
work.  There  was  that  thing  I  was  rummaging  at  before  I 
crocked.  And  I  want  to  think;  to  make  sure  of  one  or  two 
lessons  I've  been  learning." 

He  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  his  eyes  flashed  up  sud- 
denly, and  his  whole  face  seemed  to  radiate  inward  light. 

"Old  man,  I  was  a  hard  beggar.  I  thought  I  was  strong 
enough  for  anything,  equal  to  anything.  I  despised  the  people 
I  used  to  call  weaklings,  and  the  poor  devils  who  got  stuck 
on  stools.  I  hadn't  any  patience,  and  not  much  pity,  and  I 
thought  myself  so  confoundedly  clever.  Then  the  crash  came. 
Fate  had  been  smiling  and  waiting.  Well,  I've  been  through 
hell." 

Cuthbertson  stared  hard  at  the  opposite  wall. 

"You  always  would  work  too  hard.  And  it  was  my  fault — 
in  a  way." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  But,  do  you  know,  I  have  relearnt  some- 
thing I  had  managed  to  forget?  I  have  had  the  egotism  burnt 
out  of  me;  I  have  rediscovered  the  other  side  of  life.  When 
you  are  a  hard,  clever  devil  you  want  breaking,  just  to  be 
made  to  understand.  I  do  understand  now.  At  least,  I  hope  so." 

Cuthbertson's  eyes  glimmered  in  his  big,  round  face. 

"I  have  been  hurt  in  my  time." 

"That's  it.  The  sequence  of  things  that  we  call  Fate,  or 
God,  or  the  Great  Cause,  had  to  hurt  me  most  damnably  in 


THE  WHITE  GATE  15 

order  to  teach  me  to  feel.  I  had  a  bit  of  steel  for  a  brain 
then.  I  have  had  my  purgatory;  I  have  come  out  softened." 

He  smiled  reflectively. 

"Sympathy — a  sensitive  surface.  What  one  misses  by  being 
in  such  a  heartless  hurry!  I  tell  you  what  I  swore  to  do,  Jack, 
to  tear  the  skin  off  my  old  self  and  to  go  about  feeling — life. 
Men,  women  and  children.  We  have  all  got  to  help  each  other 
to  live." 

The  big  man  nodded. 

"There's  a  monstrous  lot  of  good  in  the  world,"  he  said. 
"Why,  you  have  only  to  keep  a  dog  to  learn  that." 


CONSTANCE  BRENT  came  out  of  her  mother's  room  with  dull 
and  bewildered  eyes. 

As  she  closed  the  door  behind  her  a  woman  appeared  at 
the  end  of  the  short  passage  leading  from  the  hall.  She  had 
been  waiting  for  the  opening  of  the  door,  and  the  brown  eyes 
in  the  broad  face  were  full  of  pity  and  of  anger. 

"Miss  Connie " 

But  the  girl  fled  towards  the  stairs,  her  face  quivering  as 
her  self-control  gave  way.  She  wanted  to  keep  back  tears  until 
she  was  alone  in  her  own  room. 

"I  can't,  Mary." 

The  woman  watched  her  run  up  the  stairs  and  disappear. 
She  stood  twisting  her  hands  into  her  apron  and  staring  at  a 
patch  of  sunlight  on  the  red  carpet.  Anger  and  compassion 
were  big  in  her.  She  nodded  her  head  emphatically,  and  gazed 
at  the  door  of  the  room  from  which  Constance  Brent  had 
come. 

"She's  told  her." 


16  THE  WHITE  GATE 

The  woman  had  a  broad  face,  with  steadiness  and  strength 
in  the  mouth  and  forehead.  Her  brown  eyes  could  be  very 
kind.  She  was  not  one  who  acted  quickly,  but  when  once  set 
upon  a  purpose  she  was  not  easily  rebuffed. 

Crossing  the  hall,  she  opened  the  door  of  the  room  and 
went  in. 

Dora  Brent  lay  on  a  Chesterfield  sofa  by  the  open  French 
window,  with  a  bowl  of  red  and  white  roses  on  a  little  Shera- 
ton table  beside  her.  She  might  have  been  about  fifty,  though 
her  hair  was  the  colour  of  saffron.  Her  face  had  a  curious 
waxy  pallor;  the  only  live  things  in  it  were  the  eyes,  large,  of 
a  lightish  hazel,  and  very  hard  and  restless.  Deep  furrows 
ran  from  the  nose  to  the  angles  of  the  mouth.  It  was  a  face 
that  betrayed  nothing  so  much  as  discontented  apathy,  though 
the  selfishness  that  lived  in  the  eyes  seemed  to  have  sucked 
all  the  blood  and  substance  from  the  surrounding  flesh  and 
left  it  sapped  and  shrunken. 

She  was  dressed — or  overdressed — in  some  pink  gauzy  stuff 
that  would  have  suited  a  girl  of  twenty.  The  left  hand  had 
three  rings  on  the  third  finger,  a  large  emerald,  a  hoop  of 
opals,  and  a  circle  of  plain  gold.  In  repose  she  kept  her  fingers 
pressed  together,  the  tips  curved  inwards  so  that  the  hands 
appeared  to  run  to  a  point  and  to  take  the  shape  of  hooks. 

The  servant  closed  the  door  and  stood  with  her  back  to 
it.  Dora  Brent  had  turned  her  head.  Her  eyes  looked  at  the 
other  woman  with  cynical  steadiness. 

"You've  told  her " 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

The  servant's  broad  face  flushed  hotly. 

"You  think  I've  no  cause " 

"If  you  must  choose  to  regard  yourself  as  one  of  the  family 


THE  WHITE  GATE  17 

— I  have  told  her.  She  had  to  be  told  some  day,  or  other 
people  would  have  remedied  the  omission.  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  tell  her  when  she  was  eighteen." 

The  woman  by  the  door  drew  in  a  deep  breath  and  held  it. 
Her  face  looked  astonished,  angry  and  compassionate. 

"And  on  her  birthday " 

"Well,  on  her  birthday " 

"Yes;  and  how  did  you  tell  her?  You  don't  care  how  you 
hurt  people.  She's  not  like  you  or  me.  She  feels  things  dif- 
ferent; she's  all  heart  and  nerves.  Oh,  you  don't  care  or  under- 
stand." 

Dora  Brent's  eyes  were  ironically  imperturbable. 

"If  I  tell  you  to  mind  your  own  business,  Mary " 

The  servant  threw  up  her  head. 

"I  wonder  why  I  stay  here!" 

"I  wonder " 

"It's  not  because  of  you." 

"You  can  go  the  moment  you  please." 

"I  would.  I  wouldn't  have  stayed  with  you  all  these  years 
but  for  her.  Poor  little  soul." 

Dora  Brent's  eyes  grew  harder,  more  cynical.  It  was  easy 
to  read  some  of  the  past  from  this  woman's  face.  She  had 
been  something  of  a  vampire,  ever  ready  to  suck  the  vitality 
of  those  who  were  weaker  than  herself.  Mary,  the  big  woman 
with  the  broad  bosom  and  the  square  forehead,  had  had 
strength  enough  to  stand  against  her.  With  the  child  it  was 
different.  The  mother's  selfishness  was  ready  to  devour  the 
soul  of  the  daughter. 

"I  don't  think  there  is  any  more  to  be  said.  You  can  bring 
in  tea  at  four." 


i8  THE  WHITE  GATE 

She  reached  out  for  a  rose,  chose  a  white  one,  smelt  it,  and 
put  it  in  her  dress. 

The  servant's  lips  opened,  faltered,  and  then  closed  again. 
She  opened  the  door  slowly  and  went  out. 

For  some  seconds  she  stood  hesitating  in  the  hall  before  she 
climbed  the  stairs  to  listen  at  the  door  of  Constance's  bed- 
room. Mary's  hand  went  to  her  cheek  and  stroked  it,  as 
though  she  were  unconsciously  projecting  a  stream  of  sym- 
pathy into  the  girl's  room.  She  could  hear  the  sound  of  bitter 
weeping. 

"Miss  Connie " 

The  weeping  ceased  abruptly. 

"Miss  Connie,  shall  I  bring  you  up  some  tea?" 

"I  am  lying  down,  Mary.  I  would  rather  be  quiet." 

The  woman  nodded  her  head,  sighed,  and  went  slowly 
down  the  stairs. 


Chapter  One 


J.HE  girl  in  the  pink  linen  dress  came  through  the  open 
French  window  on  to  the  terrace.  Pallant,  the  "Vernors' " 
butler,  had  preceded  her  with  an  air  of  stolid  and  sallow  de- 
tachment. She  had  looked  at  Pallant  with  frightened  eyes 
when  he  had  asked  her  her  name. 

"Miss  Brent." 

She  had  to  walk  the  whole  length  of  the  terrace  before  reach- 
ing the  place  where  Mrs.  Hesketh  Power  sat  chatting  in  the 
thick  of  a  group  of  well-dressed  people.  A  man,  sitting  on  a 
cushion  on  the  top  step  of  the  stairway  leading  down  from  the 
terrace  to  the  garden,  glanced  around  and  saw  the  girl  follow- 
ing Pallant's  shadow. 

The  glance  had  been  a  careless  one,  but  it  was  arrested  and 
held.  The  pink  linen  dress  would  have  seemed  satisfyingly 
simple  to  a  man,  and  cheap  to  a  woman.  Otherwise  it  was  a 
shaft  of  moving  colour  sustaining  something  that  was  sensi- 
tive, and  fragile,  and  afraid.  The  face,  with  its  full  red  lips  and 
delicately  curved  nose  and  chin,  swam  in  a  setting  of  crisp 
jet  hair.  The  eyes  had  a  frightened,  defensive  look,  a  clouded 


20  THE  WHITE  GATE 

velvety  blackness  that  made  the  white  skin  appear  even  whiter. 
The  whole  figure  suggested  the  image  of  a  pale  flame  carried 
forward  against  an  unsympathetic  wind. 

As  the  girl  passed  behind  him,  the  man  on  the  steps  turned 
his  head,  and  was  able  to  watch  the  group  upon  his  left.  Mrs. 
Hesketh  Power  was  rising  from  her  chair,  a  tall,  fair  woman 
in  a  biscuit-coloured  gown  and  a  huge  black  hat.  She  had  the 
happy,  gracious  poise  of  the  thoroughbred,  and  though  her 
eyes  were  often  amused,  they  never  mingled  their  amusement 
with  malice. 

She  went  forward  to  meet  the  girl,  smiling  down  at  her 
kindly. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  could  come." 

The  girl  blushed. 

"Mother  asked  me  to  explain.  She  has  one  of  her  head- 
aches." 

"I'm  sorry.  Have  you  brought  your  racket  and  shoes?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  play  tennis." 

"No?  Come  along;  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  some  people." 

Mrs.  Hesketh  Power  was  the  most  understanding  of  women, 
but,  having  launched  Constance  Brent  on  the  little  social  sea 
on  the  terrace  of  "Vernors,"  she  had  to  leave  her  to  greet 
other  guests.  And  the  girl  with  the  frightened  eyes,  who  was 
suffering  from  an  agony  of  self-consciousness,  found  herself 
placed  between  two  people  who  did  not  encourage  her  to  talk. 
On  her  left  sat  Mrs.  Gascoyne,  a  melancholy  neurasthenic, 
whose  lined  and  sallow  face  suggested  a  mask  of  tallow  that 
had  melted  and  run  downwards  into  one  long  gloom  of  mouth 
and  chin.  On  her  right  a  mothy  young  man  in  spectacles  and 
a  low  collar,  bent  forward,  elbows  on  knees  and  fingers  to- 


THE  WHITE  GATE  21 

gether,  trying  to  assume  that  he  was  absorbed  in  watching  the 
tennis  on  the  courts  below  the  terrace. 

Constance  Brent  felt  herself  seated  in  a  litde  circle  of  silence. 
Inwardly  she  was  still  in  turmoil,  too  sensitively  alive  to  every- 
thing about  her,  and  struggling  against  a  sense  of  nudity  as 
though  she  were  being  stripped  and  searched. 

The  man  on  the  terrace  steps  was  still  watching  her.  She 
met  his  eyes  more  than  once,  and  felt  angry  with  him  for 
being  so  inconsiderate  as  to  stare  when  she  was  passing  through 
an  ordeal.  How  could  he  know  that  she  had  faltered  and 
turned  back  at  the  front  door,  and  had  only  been  driven  back 
into  the  porch  by  a  motor  arriving  and  hemming  her  in  with 
a  group  of  fresh  arrivals. 

She  tried  to  lose  herself  in  the  excitement  down  yonder, 
and  to  fix  her  eyes  upon  the  moving  figures.  A  stout  little  man, 
strenuous,  elastic,  and  eager,  flashed  a  racket  on  the  near  side 
of  the  net.  Her  attention  concentrated  itself  upon  him,  strove 
to  lose  itself  in  his  superabundant  vitality.  His  cuts  and 
smashes  at  the  net  had  glitter  and  dexterity.  The  happiness 
of  his  round  face  after  a  crisp  and  victorious  rally  held  her 
interested. 

Richard  Skelton,  seated  on  the  terrace  steps,  was  hidden  by 
the  massive  corner  pillar  of  the  balustraded  parapet  from  two 
women  who  had  drawn  two  chairs  aside  in  order  to  be  undis- 
turbed. Skelton  was  waiting  for  a  set  at  tennis,  his  long  legs 
drawn  up  and  his  arms  wrapped  round  them,  the  sleeves  of 
his  brown  Norfolk  showing  sinewy  wrists.  A  grey  slouch  hat 
shaded  his  face.  He  no  longer  wore  a  black  beard  and  mous- 
tache. His  thin,  determined  chin  and  the  humorous  mobility 
of  his  mouth  were  all  to  his  credit. 

But  he  had  forgotten  the  tennis  players,  first  in  watching 


22  THE  WHITE  GATE 

the  girl  in  the  pink  dress,  and  then  in  listening  to  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  two  women  behind  the  pillar.  He  knew  who  they 
were — old  Mrs.  Cottle,  with  her  pink  face  and  her  air  of  bland 
patronage,  and  Betty  Strickson,  laced  up  in  her  alert  reserve, 
with  hard  brown  eyes  that  watched  and  criticised  and  a  mouth 
that  was  eternally  clever. 

"I  think  tolerance  can  go  too  far.  That  is  the  one  fault  I 
have  to  find  with  Philippa.  She  told  me  she  was  going  to  call 
on  the  woman." 

"Philippa  Power  is  no  fool." 

"That  is  what  I  said  to  her,  my  dear.  I  said,  'As  a  woman 
of  the  world,  you  ought  to  know  that  some  people  are  im- 
possible, and  that  one  is  not  justified '  " 

"In  being  kind  to  the  child  in  spite  of  the  mother." 

"That  was  her  view.  The  Brent  woman  is  impossible.  I 
think  Philippa  is  the  only  person  who  has  called.  I  shall  not. 
I  regard  tainted  people  as  dangerous.  One  has  to  retain  some 
social  daintiness." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you.  A  yellow  head  and  a  chalked  face 
are  apt  to  arouse  prejudice.  Besides " 

"My  dear,  it  is  not  the  mere  appearances.  Everybody 
knows " 

"What  every  woman  knows  by  instinct.  I  think  Madame 
la  mere  showed  some  sense  in  having  a  headache.  And  the 
girl Philippa  is  such  a  good  sort." 

"Kindness  may  be  unjustifiable  in  certain  cases.  If  one  lets 
sentimentality  loose " 

"At  all  events,  the  daughter  is  pretty,  and  looks  too  fright- 
ened to  be  dangerous." 

"Of  course,  my  dear,  I  am  sorry  for  the  girl,  but " 


THE  WHITE  GATE  23 

"She  should  have  been  more  careful  in  choosing  her 
parents!" 

"I  told  Philippa  Power  that,  though  she  might  choose  to 
take  the  lead,  no  one  else  in  the  neighbourhood  could  follow 
her.  I  refuse  to  know  such  people.  Why  should  one?" 

Skelton  glanced  at  Constance  Brent.  She  was  still  sitting 
silently  in  her  chair,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  dark 
eyes  watching  the  players  on  the  court  below.  A  flash  of  under- 
standing and  of  pity  struck  across  the  man's  consciousness. 
It  seemed  strangely  hard  that  a  circle  of  circumstances  over 
which  the  girl  had  no  control  should  condemn  her  from  the 
first  to  this  humiliating  isolation. 

Tea  was  brought  on  to  the  terrace.  The  tennis  players 
climbed  the  steps,  and  the  various  groups  split  up  and  re- 
arranged themselves.  Philippa  Power,  observant  and  serenely 
kind,  beckoned  her  husband  to  her  and  spoke  in  an  undertone. 

"Kethie,  go  and  be  kind  to  the  child  over  there." 

"Which  one?" 

"The  little  pink  thing — you  know." 

Skelton,  carrying  round  plates  of  bread  and  butter  and  cu- 
cumber sandwiches,  saw  this  piece  of  by-play,  and  looked 
admiringly  at  Philippa  Power.  What  a  quiet  and  gracious 
understanding  of  life  this  woman  had;  how  very  patient  she 
was  even  with  the  bitterest  bores;  what  fine  courtesy  she 
showed  in  her  unselfish  self-restraint.  An  aristocrat!  In  the 
spirit  Skelton  bowed  down  and  gave  her  homage,  for  such 
women  helped  other  people  to  live. 

Hesketh  Power  was  a  good  fellow,  but  years  spent  in  dis- 
ciplining and  stiffening  an  extreme  self-consciousness  had 
ended  in  giving  him  a  poise  that  was  altogether  too  perfect. 
He  was  so  intelligently  dressed  that  no  one  noticed  what  he 


24  THE  WHITE  GATE 

wore.  His  clothes  effaced  themselves,  as  did  his  feelings.  His 
slow,  drawling  voice  always  seemed  to  be  holding  itself  in,  lest 
it  should  run  away  with  itself  and  say  something  that  was 
clever. 

Skelton,  standing  with  his  back  to  a  French  window  and 
chatting  with  Garside,  the  Roymer  doctor,  watched  these  two 
and  saw  that  they  were  in  distress.  Hesketh  Power's  poise  had 
frightened  the  girl  into  mute  awkwardness.  He  stood  at  her 
elbow  and  dropped  a  sentence  from  time  to  time  as  though 
whipping  a  trout  stream  and  getting  nothing  in  the  way  of  a 
bite.  The  girl  had  had  no  experience  of  men,  and  to  her  an 
interesting  conversation  meant  the  interchange  of  enthusiasms, 
yet  instinct  warned  her  that  to  Hesketh  Power  enthusiasms 
were  but  the  gambols  of  a  lamb. 

Skelton  turned  suddenly  to  Garside. 

"Do  you  know  the  girl  over  there — in  pink — talking  to 
Power?" 

"Miss  Brent?" 

"Yes." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  know  her — and  her  mother." 

"I  wish  you  would  introduce  me  presently." 

The  doctor  gave  him  an  interested  look. 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"Thanks."   .. 

With  the  moving  on  of  the  Chevalier  of  the  Perfect  Poise, 
Constance  Brent  was  left  once  more  in  crowded  isolation. 
Garside  put  his  tea  cup  on  a  table  and  glanced  at  Skelton.  The 
two  men  made  their  way  to  where  Constance  Brent  was  sit- 
ting. 

She  had  no  idea  that  these  two  tall  men  were  singling  her 
out  till  Garside's  figure  threw  a  shadow  on  the  flagstones  at 


THE  WHITE  GATE  25 

her  feet.  He  was  built  like  a  blacksmith,  with  a  head  covered 
with  crisp,  curled,  black  hair,  puzzling  dark  eyes,  an  immense 
throat,  and  very  massive  shoulders.  A  man  of  big  passions  and 
big  tendernesses,  he  could  be  extraordinarily  gentle  and  playful 
towards  women. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Brent?" 

He  looked  down  at  her  very  kindly,  and  held  out  a  big 
hand. 

"I  don't  think  you  have  met  Mr.  Skelton.  I  have  brought 
him  along  to  be  presented." 

Constance  Brent  coloured  self-consciously.  Her  eyes  met  the 
eyes  of  the  man  on  the  terrace  steps — the  man  of  the  brown 
Norfolk  jacket  and  the  grey  flannel  trousers.  He  was  smiling, 
and  there  was  something  about  his  smile  that  gave  her  a 
sudden  sense  of  protecting  friendliness. 

"Garside  and  I  always  try  to  out-talk  each  other,  Miss  Brent, 
unless  some  third  party  keeps  us  in  order." 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"I'm  not  argumentative  to-day.  Besides,  I  have  to  make  up 
a  four  in  three  minutes.  Skelton  likes  someone  who  will  listen 
to  him.  If  you  let  him  talk  about  Japan  or  California,  or  heavy 
oil  engines " 

Constance  Brent's  eyes  cleared,  and  her  face  looked  happier. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  Japan." 

"There's  Skelton's  opportunity!" 

"No,  my  privilege." 

"Or  mine?" 

A  voice  hailed  the  doctor: 

"Garside,  are  you  coming?" 

"Coming,  coming — out  of  Japan  on  to  the  grass!" 


26  THE  WHITE  GATE 

They  watched  him  make  his  way  along  the  terrace.  Skelton 
turned  again  to  the  girl. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  call  our  friend?" 

"No." 

Her  eyes  looked  up  at  him  almost  gratefully. 

"The  Oxygen  Cylinder." 

"Oh ?" 

"Because  he  is  packed  so  full  of  vitality." 

"Yes,  I  have  felt  that.  He  can  be  so  very  kind." 

"Oh,  Garside's  splendid — a  sport.  What  do  you  say  to  watch- 
ing the  tennis?" 

"I  should  like  to." 

They  chose  two  chairs  at  the  very  edge  of  the  terrace,  whose 
red  brick  retaining  wall  dropped  ten  feet  to  form  the  backing 
for  a  broad  herbaceous  border.  Constance  Brent's  face  lost  some 
of  its  reserve.  There  was  something  in  the  man's  personality 
that  made  her  react  to  his  presence.  He  was  so  easy,  so  flexible, 
so  much  the  master  of  his  smiling  and  kindly  cleverness,  that 
the  shy,  proud  girl  felt  the  whole  atmosphere  about  her  cleared 
and  lightened. 

"Aren't  you  playing  tennis?" 

"Sometimes  I  prefer  to  talk;  especially  when  I  find  a  stimu- 
lating subject." 

"What  do  you  call  stimulating?" 

"Anything  with  life  in  it,  that's  not  dead  or  petrified.  And 
I  am  always  ready  to  listen." 

"In  spite  of  what  Dr.  Garside  said?" 

"Some  of  us  can  bear  being  teased." 

No  doubt  they  were  very  ready  to  listen  to  each  other,  but 
a  knot  of  very  young  men,  who  had  seized  the  deck  chairs 
below  the  terrace,  began  to  talk  as  very  old  men  might  talk, 


THE  WHITE  GATE  27 

but  don't.  The  voices  carried  a  delightful  self-assurance,  and 
a  suggestion  of  finality.  To  sit  there  and  listen  was  to  hear 
matters  intimately  discussed  by  men  of  the  world. 

"Monte?  Monte's  a  rotten  place;  it  bored  me  stiff.  Had  an 
indication?  Oh,  rather;  lots  of  'em — but  never  raked  in  any- 
thing." 

"The  bank's  bound  to  win.  I'll  show  it  you  all  worked  out 
in  probabilities,  Bertie.  I'd  rather  have  three  weeks  at  St. 
Moritz." 

"I  dare  say;  but  I  hate  the  beastly  French." 

"Rotter!  St.  Moritz  isn't " 

"Don't  put  little  pins  all  over  the  map.  Besides,  those  places 
are  all  full  of  beastly  schoolmasters.  You  try  a  ride  through 
the  South  of  Spain.  That's  a  country!  You  can  get  some  quite 
decent  shooting  from  Gib." 

"Shootin'!  What  about  Austria?  Best  sport  in  Europe;  sort 
of  antelope  potting,  they  give  you.  Have  to  take  'em  on  the 
jump  like  fleas." 

"Oh,  I  should  go  straight  to  British  East  Africa  if  I  wanted 
big  gunning.  Bertie  here  was  gassing  about  it,  but  he  won't 
think  of  anything  but  gear-box  grease  and  sparking  plugs." 

"What's  wrong  with  a  chap's  being  keen?  Think  of  taking 
my  'Hawk'  across  and  entering  her  for  that  French  thing. 
Only  I  hate  the  beastly  French — and  their  language." 

"Hire  a  schoolmaster  for  the  trip." 

"I'd  rather  take  the  Penningtons'  French  governess." 

Constance  Brent  was  inexperienced  enough  to  be  impressed 
by  the  slangy  self-assurance  of  these  young  barbarians,  young 
men  who  would  have  had  opinions  ready  upon  Athens  or 
Honolulu.  People  who  talked  "travel"  always  humiliated  her, 
perhaps  because  there  is  so  much  conscious  egoism  in  the 


28  THE  WHITE  GATE 

babblings  of  idle  fools.  She  wondered  how  the  thing  affected 
the  man  beside  her,  and  in  trying  to  answer  the  question  she 
came  face  to  face  with  the  glitter  of  tolerant  humour  in  his 
eyes.  He  was  smiling  over  the  young  men  below,  and  enjoy- 
ing them,  as  they  deserved  to  be  enjoyed. 

"You  can  learn  a  great  deal  by  listening!  One  has  to  re- 
member one's  own  youth  in  order  to  appreciate  the  innocent 
priggishness  of  life.  Our  friends  down  below  are  being  such 
men  of  the  world." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"Three  or  four  boys.  You  go  up  like  a  rocket  when  you 
leave  school,  you  know.  I  remember  my  self-importance  grow- 
ing up  like  a  gourd.  The  pumpkin  heads  one  gets!  All  men 
over  forty  are  decrepit  duffers.  You  know  everything.  I  only 
wish  I  could  re-experience  that  delightful  sensation.  At  twenty 
I  was  quite  sure  I  could  run  the  Empire.  Now  that  I  am  get- 
ting towards  forty  I  find  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  running 
myself." 

Her  eyes  lit  up  to  his. 

"You  are  not  forty  yet!" 

"Not  so  very  far  away." 

"But  you  look  so  young." 

"Mademoiselle,  from  henceforth  I  shall  be  devoted  to  you! 
But,  really,  the  rookery  down  below  is  rather  disturbing.  What 
are  they  at  now — Japan?  Bless  my  soul,  what  a  thing  it  is  to 
be  young  and  a  ubiquitous  liar!  Have  you  seen  the  'Vernors' 
gardens?" 

"No." 

"They  are  splendid.  Let's  go  on  a  pilgrimage." 

"Yes,  please  take  me." 

When  Hesketh  Power's  father  had  bought  "Vernors,"  he 


THE  WHITE  GATE  29 

had  taken  to  himself  the  dream  of  another  man's  soul.  More- 
over, the  other  man's  dream  had  matured  and  mellowed.  The 
Jacobean  house  was  there,  proudly  placed  upon  its  platform, 
with  brick-faced  terraces  and  flowing  stairs.  The  old,  high- 
walled  garden  remained,  with  its  box-edged  paths  running 
between  herbs,  fruit  trees,  and  old-fashioned  flowers.  Some 
topiarist  had  left  a  yew  walk,  with  square-cut  walls  and  great 
green  battlements;  and  in  the  Dutch  garden  were  box  trees 
clipped  into  the  shape  of  peacocks. 

But  all  this  was  a  mere  ancient  corner,  a  fine  fragment  al- 
most lost  in  the  miraculous  beauty  of  the  acres  of  parkland 
that  had  been  turned  into  a  perfect  pleasaunce.  Green  walks 
plunged  under  the  stately  gloom  of  cedars  of  Lebanon,  open- 
ing out  into  pools  of  sunlight,  and  rushing  together  again  into 
sudden  mystery.  There  was  a  great  rock-garden,  where  queer, 
elvish  trees  made  the  miniature  landscape  look  like  a  land 
of  the  dwarfs,  and  where  one  thought  of  secret  caves  filled 
with  caskets  of  beaten  gold,  enchanted  swords,  and  hoards 
of  emeralds  and  sapphires.  Beyond  the  jardin  des  roches  rose 
a  wood  of  blue  cedars,  firs,  and  black  American  spruces,  and 
in  the  midst  of  it  a  grassy  glade  that  had  a  miraculous  stillness 
and  the  listening  awe  of  some  ancient  story  of  enchantment. 
Brown  fir  cones  lay  scattered  on  the  grass  for  satyrs  and 
dryads  to  play  with.  The  place  was  so  beautiful  that  it  gave 
to  the  heart  of  the  lover  of  beauty  a  moment  of  breathlessness 
and  of  pain. 

The  girl's  face  had  an  awed  whiteness. 

"It  is  almost  too  beautiful!" 

Skelton's  eyes  shone. 

"Beauty  hurts — sometimes.  But  one  can  bless  the  man  who 
created  it." 


30  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Yes.  The  joy  and  the  pain." 

They  passed  on,  and  found  themselves  standing  on  the  edge 
of  the  rhododendron  valley,  filled  with  the  choicest  rhododen- 
drons and  azaleas,  a  valley  that  was  an  intoxication  in  the 
season  of  its  flowering,  with  the  strange  perfume  of  the  azaleas 
giving  a  pagan  scent  to  the  gorgeous  flesh  tints  of  a  pagan 
world.  The  rose  garden  followed,  and  here  all  the  rambling 
and  polyantha  roses  were  curtains  of  colour  hung  upon  the 
great  pergolas  and  the  stumps  of  old  trees.  The  walks  were 
paved  with  irregular  stones,  and  rock  plants  grew  in  the 
crevices. 

But  in  wandering  through  the  "Vernors"  gardens  Skelton 
had  discovered  a  sensitive  plant,  a  fragile  flower  that  opened 
its  leaves  to  the  sunlight  and  forgot  to  be  self-conscious  and 
upon  its  guard.  Enthusiasms,  that  Hesketh  Power  had  terri- 
fied, fluttered  out  and  displayed  their  iridescent  wings.  An 
intuitive  pity  stirred  in  Skelton.  He  could  visualise  the  girl's 
life  in  that  lonely  little  white  house  on  the  edge  of  Roymer 
Heath,  with  that  yellow-headed  mother  for  a  companion. 
Constance  Brent  looked  like  a  child  who  had  lived  through 
long  silences,  and  who  had  had  to  Create  imaginary  people 
to  talk  to  and  to  play  with.  Yet  the  eyes  were  not  the  eyes  of  a 
child.  They  had  knowledge,  a  something  that  lurked  in  the 
conscious  background,  a  something  that  had  to  be  hidden. 

Their  pilgrimage  ended  with  a  glimpse  of  the  "Vernors" 
cedars,  black  against  a  primrose  sky.  Dew  was  falling,  and 
the  little  gay  figures  were  drifting  from  the  terrace,  to  be 
carried  away  by  motors,  carriages,  and  pony  carts.  Constance 
Brent  would  be  walking  back  alone  to  Roymer  Heath,  and  to 
Skelton  there  was  a  touch  of  pathos  in  the  thought  of  that 


THE  WHITE  GATE  31 

slim,  pink-dressed  figure,  with  its  flower-like  face,  passing 
through  the  lonely  dusk  of  the  Roymer  fir  woods. 

They  found  themselves  in  the  drive  together.  Skelton  was 
still  thanking  Philippa  Power  in  his  heart  for  the  smile  she 
had  given  the  girl,  and  for  the  calm  warmth  of  her  voice.  He 
was  wheeling  a  bicycle  with  a  tennis  racket  strapped  to  the 
handle  bars. 

"I  am  going  to  walk  with  you  as  far  as  the  church." 

"But  you  would  be  riding " 

She  caught  the  same  gleam  of  protecting  kindness  in  his 
eyes.  He  had  a  quiet  insistent  way  with  him,  and  it  suited  his 
lean  strength. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  like  cycling.  It  is  one  of  those  things 
that  makes  one  feel  in  quite  an  unnecessary  hurry.  I  can  take 
the  path  through  the  woods  from  the  church." 

And  when  he  left  her  Constance  Brent  wondered  why  he 
had  taken  so  much  trouble.  Perhaps  brothers  were  like  that. 
She  had  never  had  any  menfolk  to  brother  her. 


JL  HOSE  who  had  known  Dora  Brent  twenty  years  ago 
would  never  have  recognised  her  in  the  woman  who  lived  in 
the  white  house  on  the  edge  of  Roymer  Heath. 

It  was  an  inordinate  selfishness  that  had  created  an  un- 
savoury tragedy,  and  lost  her  her  husband  and  her  friends. 
She  had  been  a  devourer,  one  who  had  demanded  to  be  fed 
on  other  people's  emotions,  and  who  had  grasped  fiercely  at 
sympathy  and  compassion,  only  to  discover  that  people  had 
refused  to  be  devoured.  She  had  asked  for  everything  and  of- 
fered nothing.  Bitter  experiences,  that  had  taught  other  women 
to  accept  the  sacrament  of  suffering,  had  left  her  hard,  in- 
censed, and  resentful. 

With  the  crisis  of  her  womanhood  passed,  a  curious  de- 
generation had  set  in.  She  had  been  an  unusually  handsome 
woman,  and  as  the  external  beauty  faded  so  the  inner  fire  of 
her  egoism  seemed  to  flicker  and  to  fail.  The  apathy  of  dis- 
illusionment settled  upon  her,  dulling  all  the  finer  appetites 
of  the  cultured  woman  of  the  world,  and  compelling  her  to 
seek  cruder  sensations  in  order  to  be  stimulated.  As  in  some 

32 


THE  WHITE  GATE  33 

mental  diseases,  so  the  brain  appeared  to  have  lost  its  finer 
texture,  its  delicacy,  -the  more  subtle  ramifications  of  intellect. 
She  developed  a  liking  for  coarse  perfumes,  coarse  books, 
coarse  colours,  and  even  coarse  foods.  Vulgarity  overtook  her 
on  the  downward  slope  of  life.  This  woman,  who  once  had 
boasted  a  very  perfect  taste  in  dress,  now  wore  loud  colours, 
overscented  herself,  and  dyed  her  hair.  The  hardness  that 
comes  with  selfishness  seemed  to  have  softened  suddenly,  and 
to  have  become  flabby,  garish,  and  smeared. 

That  she  had  chosen  to  come  and  live  in  such  a  place  as 
Roymer  betrayed  the  curious  change  in  a  vain  woman  who 
had  clung  desperately  to  the  skirts  of  the  gay  world.  A  day 
of  routine  seemed  to  satisfy  her.  She  breakfasted  in  bed,  "Gus- 
sie,"  her  pet  Pekinese,  lying  beside  the  tray  and  sharing  the 
meal.  She  allowed  the  dog  a  license  that  showed  a  certain 
slovenly  foolishness,  in  that  she  was  absurdly  soft  to  this  little 
beast  of  a  dog  and  hard  towards  her  own  child.  She  rose  at 
ten,  and  spent  two  hours  at  her  dressing-table  with  messes 
of  grease  and  powder,  and  the  like.  From  twelve  till  one  Con- 
stance was  expected  to  read  to  her  mother,  and  the  senti- 
mental and  erotic  stuff  swept  a  smear  over  the  morning.  They 
lunched  at  one  o'clock.  At  half-past  two  the  little  governess 
cart  was  brought  round  by  the  boy  who  did  duty  as  groom 
and  gardener,  and  Dora  Brent  went  for  her  daily  drive,  with 
her  little  consequential  cur  of  a  dog  on  the  seat  beside  her. 
She  drove  the  pony  herself,  and  never  let  Constance  take  the 
reins.  People  had  grown  accustomed  to  seeing  this  saffron- 
haired  woman  with  the  dead  white  face  driving  the  brown 
pony  up  and  down  hill,  Gussie  jumping  up  to  yap  at  every- 
thing, and  the  girl,  her  daughter,  sitting  mute  and  dark-eyed 
on  the  opposite  seat.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say  how  Roymer 


34  THE  WHITE  GATE 

had  discovered  Dora  Brent's  history,  but  she  was  conspicuous 
in  such  a  neighbourhood,  nor  had  she  been  able  to  bury  the 
past. 

At  four  o'clock  the  governess  cart  reappeared  at  the  white 
gate  in  the  laurel  hedge,  and  Constance  would  climb  out  and 
open  the  gate,  with  its  "Furze  Cottage"  painted  in  black  letters 
on  the  face  of  the  top  bar.  In  warm  weather  tea  was  brought 
out  on  the  green-roofed  veranda,  Gussie  having  his  particular 
cushion,  or  a  place  in  his  mistress's  lap.  From  tea-time  to 
dinner  Dora  Brent  read  the  paper  or  played  patience.  They 
dined  at  seven,  by  candlelight,  even  at  midsummer,  and  the 
courses  were  limited  by  the  fact  that  they  kept  only  one 
servant.  Dora  Brent  drank  stout,  and  took  a  glass  of  Kiimmel 
with  her  dessert.  After  dinner  Constance  had  to  read  to  her 
mother  for  two  clear  hours,  cheap  tales  from  cheap  magazines, 
novels  that  dealt  mainly  with  sexual  problems,  or  the  more 
sentimental  sorts  of  romance.  On  some  nights  she  was  suffered 
to  sing  or  play,  but  as  often  as  not  Gussie  objected,  and  the 
dog's  whims  were  always  considered.  At  ten  Dora  Brent  went 
to  bed.  She  slept  badly,  and  had  drifted  into  the  habit  of 
taking  chloral.  The  dog  slept  on  a  light  blue  satin  cushion  at 
Dora  Brent's  side. 

Three  days  after  the  party  at  "Vernors"  Skelton  came  out 
of  the  village  shop  where  he  had  been  buying  tobacco  and  a 
daily  paper.  Roymer  Green,  with  its  brick  and  half-timbered 
houses,  lay  in  the  full  golden  glare  of  a  perfect  summer  day. 
Skelton  had  his  grey  slouch  hat  pulled  well  down  over  his 
eyes,  and  the  ends  of  the  belt  of  his  Norfolk  jacket  were 
tucked  into  the  side  pockets.  Shading  the  road  and  the  little 
forecourt  of  Mr.  Dutton's  shop  stood  a  huge  chestnut,  throw- 
ing a  circle  of  shadow.  A  pony  cart  had  just  drawn  up  under 


THE  WHITE  GATE  35 

the  tree,  and  the  rich  green  half-light  under  the  chestnut 
seemed  to  accentuate  the  colour  notes  beneath  it.  The  brown 
pony  looked  a  fine  bronze.  A  yellow  head,  shining  like  a  mass 
of  copper  wire,  and  a  sapphire  blue  blouse,  were  reminiscent 
of  Rossetti.  Still  deeper  in  the  shadow,  and  seen  against  the 
trunk  of  the  chestnut,  a  mute  face  floated  upon  a  slender  white 
throat  that  rose  from  the  low-cut  collar  of  a  plain  white  blouse. 

Gussie,  the  Pekinese,  had  his  forepaws  on  the  edge  of  the 
cart,  his  insufferable  little  nose  in  the  air,  his  eyes  bleary  and 
overfed.  The  dog  began  to  yap  at  Skelton  as  he  came  out  of 
the  shop. 

"You  wicked — icked — ittle  thing,  you!  Does  it  like  to  hear 
its  own  voice?" 

Her  tone  changed  when  she  spoke  to  the  girl,  who  sat  star- 
ing listlessly  down  the  white  road  skirting  the  Green. 

"Go  and  tell  Dutton  to  come  out." 

Constance  was  leaning  over  to  turn  the  door  handle  when 
she  caught  sight  of  Skelton.  He  raised  his  hat,  his  eyes  smiling 
out  suddenly  in  his  brown  face. 

"Don't  bother  to  get  out.  I'll  tell  Dutton  for  you." 

Dora  Brent  turned  her  head  at  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice. 
She  missed  seeing  the  momentary  flush  of  colour  in  Constance's 
cheeks — a  tinting  of  sensitive  shame. 

"Mother— Mr.  Skelton." 

"I  met  your  daughter  at  the  Powers',  Mrs.  Brent." 

"Oh?" 

She  stared  at  Skelton,  and  forced  a  smile  that  was  like  the 
cracking  of  a  plaster  cast.  The  dog  continued  to  yap  and  fuss 
up  and  down  the  seat. 

"Be  quiet,  Gussie." 


36  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Skelton  noticed  the  sensitive  loathing  in  the  girl's  eyes. 
The  dog  irritated  her  almost  beyond  endurance. 

"Be  quiet,  you  little  idiot!" 

"A  talkative  scoundrel!  You  have  found  one  of  the  few 
cool  places  here — under  this  tree.  Shall  I  send  Mr.  Dutton  out 
to  you?" 

"Oh,  thanks;  I  shall  be  much  obliged  if  you  will." 

Dora  Brent's  haggard  white  face  betrayed  no  friendliness. 
She  had  ceased  to  be  interested  in  people,  nor  was  Skelton 
the  kind  of  man  who  would  have  appealed  to  her  in  her  prime. 
In  fact,  her  intelligent  selfishness  would  have  warned  him 
to  keep  his  distance,  and  dared  him  to  come  too  near  with 
his  devilish  sense  of  humour.  Her  apathy  offered  the  man  no 
opening,  nor  did  the  girl  appear  at  her  ease.  Her  eyes  looked 
at  him  watchfully,  half  furtively,  as  though  the  vulgar  glare 
of  that  golden  head  scorched  her  self-consciousness. 

Skelton  walked  back  into  the  shop,  emerged  again,  lifted 
his  hat,  and  went  upon  his  way.  Mr.  Dutton  appeared  under 
the  shade  of  the  chestnut  tree,  to  stand  with  brisk  affability 
beside  the  trap,  wiping  his  hands  on  his  white  apron  and 
managing  not  to  notice  the  Pekinese,  who  stood  yapping 
within  two  feet  of  his  face. 

The  homeward  drive  up  the  hill  to  Roymer  Heath  had  no 
thrilling  incidents,  though  life  appeared  to  move  Gussie  to 
one  eternal  protest.  Dora  Brent  hardly  opened  her  mouth, 
and  when  she  spoke  it  was  usually  to  the  dog. 

"Ittle  silly  thing,  you!  How  you  do  like  talking,  dear!" 

The  dog's  perpetual  barking,  and  her  mother's  metallic 
voice,  uttering  endearments,  brought  lines  of  tired  scorn  to 
the  girl's  face. 

"I  wonder  you  can  bear  the  noise." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  37 

"Noise!  Poor  ittle  sing!  Why  shouldn't  Gussie-wussie  have 
his  talky-talky?  It  is  absurd  that  Dutton  doesn't  keep  that 
brand  of  sardines.  Mary  didn't  spice  the  curry  enough  for 
lunch." 

"I  didn't  notice  it." 

The  square,  grey  tower  of  Roymer  Church  rose  up  among 
the  pines  and  yews.  The  gold  wind-vane  glittered  in  the  sun- 
light, and  Constance  Brent's  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  it  with 
the  look  of  a  soul  seeking  escape. 

"There!  we  forgot  Gussie's  Brazil  nuts!  Poor  ittle  sing,  you! 
You  can  go  down  after  tea,  Connie,  and  bring  them  up." 

"Yes." 

She  was  still  wondering  what  Richard  Skelton  had  thought 
of  her  mother. 

When  we  are  ashamed  of  the  people  who  belong  to  us, 
they  seem  to  swell  in  public,  and  to  take  on  a  more  glaring 
prominence,  till  we  come  to  believe  that  the  whole  world  must 
inevitably  see  our  shame.  That  is  how  Constance  Brent  had 
felt,  and  Skelton  had  guessed  that  she  had  felt  it.  The  thing 
touched  her  sore  inexperience  too  closely  for  her  to  reason  out 
the  fact  that  she  could  not  be  held  responsible.  In  her  proud 
way  she  guessed  that  she  herself  must  appear  smirched  by 
her  mother's  idiosyncrasies.  She  could  not  be  so  sharply 
ashamed  for  her  mother's  sake  as  she  was  for  her  own.  That 
was  Dora  Brent's  fault,  not  the  daughter's. 

Skelton  took  the  woodland  way  down  to  Roymer  Thorn, 
and  the  path  through  the  fir  woods  was  a  "monks'  walk,"  a 
magnificent  cloister  where  a  man's  thoughts  went  undisturbed. 
His  face  had  its  "creative  expression,"  as  Cuthbertson  had 
called  it,  strenuous  absorption  sacred  to  an  inventive  struggle 
with  cogwheels,  or  power  transmission,  or  some  cussed  piece 


38  THE  WHITE  GATE 

of  mechanism  that  worked  in  theory  but  would  not  work  in 
practice.  Sometimes  the  "creative  expression"  had  denoted  the 
accumulation  of  wrath  in  the  course  of  a  meditation  upon 
fools. 

Skelton  was  struggling  towards  tolerance,  but  there  are  times 
when  tolerance  is  treachery,  a  surrender  to  the  selfishness  of 
egoists.  He  had  the  whole  picture  before  his  eyes — the  yellow- 
headed  woman,  with  her  hard  and  haggard  face,  the  yapping, 
self-important  Pekinese,  the  girl  whose  sensitive  eyes  dreaded 
to  see  her  own  disgust  reflected  in  the  eyes  of  strangers.  She 
was  not  one  of  those  who  contrive  to  get  used  to  ugliness,  and 
learn  to  protect  themselves  by  creating  a  shell.  The  stab  of 
the  thorn  went  deep  down  to  the  quick. 

"Good  heavens!  what  a  lot  of  us  need  rescuing!  I  think 
I  know  that  sort  of  woman;  her  foot  comes  down  on  the 
child's  toes  a  good  many  times  a  day.  And  that  damned  dog! 
I  shouldn't  mind  wringing  its  neck." 

Skelton  came  out  of  the  fir  woods  into  the  sloping  meadow 
at  the  back  of  his  cottage — a  meadow  that  had  been  made 
beautiful  by  previous  bad  farming.  A  great  hawthorn  hedge 
ran  down  one  side  of  it,  its  boughs  arching  over  the  ditch 
and  turning  it  into  a  tunnel.  Masses  of  ragwort,  fleabane,  and 
thistles  grew  along  the  hedge  and  stretched  out  into  the  field, 
the  gold  and  purple  of  the  flowers  glowing  against  the  darker 
background  of  the  thorns.  Nearer  the  fir  woods,  where  the 
hedge  gave  place  to  some  posts  and  rails,  and  the  ditch  ended 
in  a  patch  of  boggy  ground,  willow-herb  flowered  like  pink 
flame  against  the  gloom  of  the  woods.  An  idler  could  sit 
under  a  fire  tree  and  gaze  across  blue  ridges  and  valleys  to  the 
grey  of  the  distant  chalk  hills. 

In  the  lower  part  of  the  meadow  were  half  a  dozen  neat 


THE  WHITE  GATE  39 

wire  chicken-runs,  each  with  its  brown  weather-board  house. 
The  thatched  roof  and  central  red  brick  chimney-stack  of  the 
cottage  showed  above  a  thorn  hedge.  This  cottage  of  Skelton's, 
long  and  low,  with  its  soft-tinted  old  red  brick  walls,  was 
watched  over  by  a  couple  of  gigantic  yews.  The  lattice  win- 
dows looked  out  on  the  garden,  with  its  brick  paths,  fruit 
trees,  rough,  rich-coloured  borders,  patches  of  scythed  grass, 
and  plots  of  vegetable  ground.  A  holly  hedge  shut  the  garden 
of!  from  the  lane,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  lane  ran  the 
palings  of  Thorn  Park.  Standing  in  his  thatched  porch,  Skel- 
ton  could  see  the  hollow  shells  of  the  primeval  oaks,  the 
wastes  of  bracken,  the  great  thorn  trees,  the  rush-grown,  boggy 
bottoms,  and  sometimes  a  browsing  herd  of  deer.  At  one 
end  of  the  garden,  under  a  lilac,  and  half-hidden  by  sheaves 
of  sweet  peas,  were  three  bee-hives.  Behind  the  cottage  was  a 
little  brick-paved  yard,  a  black  and  moss-grown  well-winch, 
and  several  rough  sheds. 

Skelton  entered  the  garden  from  the  meadow,  looked  up 
and  down  between  the  fruit  trees,  and  began  to  smile. 

"I  wonder  what  the  young  devil  is  up  to  this  time?" 

Skelton  employed  a  boy  to  help  in  the  garden  and  with  the 
chickens,  and  Josh  was  the  boy's  name.  He  arrived  most  morn- 
ings bellowing  like  a  bull-frog,  and  the  effort  appeared  to  ex- 
haust him  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  An  extraordinary  languor 
descended  upon  him  directly  he  got  inside  the  garden  gate. 
Lanky,  loose-limbed,  with  a  face  that  suggested  the  face  of  a 
sly,  sleepy,  yellow  Buddha,  he  always  gave  Skelton  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  about  to  fall  to  pieces,  and  that  he  only 
decided  to  hang  together  because  it  would  be  such  a  bother 
to  collect  the  fragments. 

Josh  had  no  garment  that  could  be  called  "manners."  In 


40  THE  WHITE  GATE 

this  respect  he  was  offensively  naked.  Skelton  had  discovered 
that  the  lad  had  a  genius  for  falling  into  trances,  and  he  had 
once  seen  him  spend  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  watching  a 
feather  being  blown  to  and  fro  on  the  water  in  one  of  the 
hens'  drinking  troughs. 

Curiosity  piqued  Skelton.  He  went  silently  to  the  tool  shed, 
looked  in  through  the  doorway,  and  saw  Josh  sitting  on  a 
sugar-box  with  his  back  half  turned.  He  was  staring  at  him- 
self in  a  broken  bit  of  looking-glass  held  in  one  palm.  The 
fingers  of  the  other  hand  were  feeling  his  chin. 

"Hallo!" 

Josh  remained  utterly  unabashed. 

"What  are  you  supposed  to  be  doing,  my  friend?" 

A  confidential  eye  fixed  itself  on  Skelton. 

"They  be  sayin'  as  I  ought  t'  shave." 

"Are  they,  now!" 

"I  was  just  countin'  'em." 

"What,  the  shavers?" 

"These  'ere  'airs  on  m'  chin." 

"By  George!" 

"And  I  can't  find  no  more  than  seven  as  I  can  tweak  between 
m'  fingers." 

"The  Seven  Sacred  Hairs!  The  Seven  Sacred  Hairs  of  Roy- 
mer!  Don't  sacrifice  them  on  any  account.  And,  by  the  way — 
excuse  me  mentioning  such  a  vulgar  matter — but  I  should  be 
rather  grateful  if  you  would  go  on  cutting  the  grass  under 
the  hedge." 

"I  just  came  in  for  a  fresh  rubber;  t'other's  broke." 

"That  explains  everything." 

Skelton's  irony  was  purely  playful.  He  burst  out  laughing 


THE  WHITE  GATE  41 

as  soon  as  he  could  save  his  dignity  by  getting  the  cottage 
between  him  and  young  Josh. 

"Exquisite  infant!  Such  works  of  art  must  have  their  price." 

An  old  lady  from  up  the  lane  came  in  and  did  Skelton's 
cooking  and  cleaning.  She  was  fat,  bland,  and  not  too  talka- 
tive, and  was  known  as  Mrs.  Gingham.  The  name  had  a 
sheltering  sound,  and  also  suggested  that  she  could  be  opened 
out  and  shut  up  at  will.  Skelton  had  studied  and  elaborated 
the  process,  and  he  could  control  Mrs.  Gingham  to  a  nicety. 

Her  admiration  for  him  was  quite  voluble  when  she  for- 
gathered with  her  neighbours.  "I  never  see  such  a  gentleman! 
Reg'lar  conjuring,  I  call  it — in  that  there  workroom  of  'is, 
'im  just  a-twiddling  'is  long  fingers,  and  turning  you  out  a 
toasting-fork  or  a  mousetrap,  just  pat.  'E's  a  wonder!  'Mr. 
Skelton,'  says  I, '  'Ere's  the  spout  come  off  of  the  kettle.'  'Bring 
the  old  blackguard  'ere,'  says  'e  in  'is  comical  way,  and,  bless 
me,  'e'll  'ave  the  ol'  spout  on  again  in  no  time,  better  than  a 
tinker." 

The  interior  of  Skelton's  cottage  was  a  cool,  comfortable 
shadowy  affair.  Pipes,  books,  cushions,  boots  lay  about  con- 
tentedly, as  though  all  wild  life  were  at  peace,  and  the  place 
preserved  against  feminine  fussing.  The  fat  brown  tobacco 
jar  had  an  air  of  swaggering  contentment.  "I'm  boss  here,"  it 
said,  "and  old  Gingham  knows  it!"  Wistful  slippers  were  al- 
lowed to  come  out  and  browse  upon  the  carpet.  No  one  came 
and  hustled  them  away  into  cupboards.  Nor  were  the  cushions 
seized,  shaken  and  punched,  and  made  to  sit  up  with  their 
little  figures  in  order. 

An  additional  window  had  been  put  into  the  room  at  the 
east  end  of  the  cottage.  In  Skelton's  workroom  order  reigned, 
severe  fanatical  efficiency.  Plans,  diagrams,  and  papers  of  cal- 


42  THE  WHITE  GATE 

culations  were  pinned  up  on  the  walls.  The  tool  racks  were 
like  the  rifle  stands  in  an  armoury.  A  big  bench  stood  under 
one  window,  a  lathe  under  the  other.  The  furnace  was  in  a  de- 
tached shed  at  the  back.  A  number  of  models  were  ranged 
on  shelves  behind  the  door.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  stood 
a  stout  deal  table,  and  upon  it  the  creature  of  steel  that  Skelton 
was  bringing  into  life. 

The  whole  cottage  told  of  a  busy  world — a  man's  world, 
full  of  ideas  and  of  endeavour.  The  books  on  the  shelves  in 
the  living-room  evidenced  a  breadth  of  culture.  William  James, 
Shaw,  Swinburne,  Wells.  There  were  volumes  upon  art,  the 
painters  of  Florence,  the  Renaissance,  old  French  clocks, 
Limoges  enamels,  the  Pre-Raphaelites,  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 
You  found  none  of  the  half-baked  books  beloved  of  the  British 
matron,  little  chocolate  eclairs  of  history  and  biography,  com- 
pounded by  some  dilettante  gentleman,  and  sent  forth  in  pretty 
little  dishes  for  people  who  believe  that,  in  consuming  such 
stuff,  they  are  accumulating  culture. 

As  Mrs.  Gingham  said,  "  'E  do  read  something  furious.  I 
dursn't  speak  to  'im  when  'e's  got  'is  nose  inside  a  book.  A 
body  might  think  as  'e  meant  to  know  everything  as  ever 
was.  And  yet  'e  ain't  one  of  those  there  book-ticks.  What, 
'worms,'  is  it?  Oh,  well,  I  ain't  a-going  to  quarrel  about  a 
word." 


CONSTANCE  BRENT  found  the  life  at  Furze  Cottage 
intolerably  lonely.  She  and  her  mother  had  been  living  there 
for  two  years,  and  Mrs.  Power  and  the  rector's  wife  were  the 
only  people  who  had  called.  For  Constance  each  day  was  much 
like  every  other  day,  save  that  sometimes  it  rained,  and  rain 
meant  an  added  dullness  and  more  reading  aloud  of  trashy 
books.  Or  she  could  sit  at  her  bedroom  window,  watching  the 
fir  trees  on  the  heath  being  blown  by  the  wind,  till  she  knew 
the  outline  and  the  characteristic  gestures  of  each  restless  tree. 
The  landscape  had  become  so  tristfully  familiar  that  much 
of  the  beauty  had  been  washed  out  of  it,  and  even  the  purples, 
the  amethysts  and  golds  seemed  infinitely  sad. 

For  many  years  Dora  Brent  and  her  daughter  had  lived  at 
a  succession  of  South  Coast  watering-places,  and,  though  they 
had  known  very  few  people,  there  had  been  shops,  libraries, 
concerts,  a  sense  of  movement  and  of  hope.  For  every  healthy 
girl  is  born  to  look  into  shop  windows,  to  laugh  a  little,  to 
flirt  a  little,  and  to  gloat  over  new  clothes.  Up  at  Furze  Cottage 
in  winter,  when  the  lamps  were  lit,  Constance  had  a  feeling 

43 


44  THE  WHITE  GATE 

of  being  lost  for  ever  in  a  black,  moaning  wilderness.  The 
finest  trickles  of  life  seemed  to  die  away  into  the  far  distance, 
and  there  was  not  a  twitter  of  hope  anywhere.  Sometimes  a 
kind  of  despair  came  upon  her — the  despair  of  one  buried 
alive,  a  thrusting  off  of  stifling,  terrifying  silence.  She  would 
even  go  out  and  stand  at  the  gate,  on  the  chance  of  hearing  a 
motor  go  whirling  down  the  road,  a  hundred  yards  away. 
Things  were  like  that.  They  came  out  of  the  unknown,  swept 
by,  and  rushed  into  the  unknown  again.  She  was  always  left 
alone,  and  listening.  And  she  wanted  to  live. 

Moreover,  the  girl  had  an  exquisite  sensitiveness,  a  love  of 
beauty  so  keen  that  it  meant  pain  and  tears  in  the  throat.  The 
ecstatic  "Ah!"  of  the  wind-swept  pine  woods  at  sunset  would 
make  her  shiver  and  thrill  like  an  echo.  The  coarsening  of 
her  mother's  nature  had  even  driven  her  towards  a  more  deli- 
cate fastidiousness.  Her  inner  world  became  more  and  more  a 
secret  world,  wherein  she  shut  away  odd  corners  of  romance, 
old  gardens  under  moonlight,  strange  castles  upon  sunset  peaks, 
visions  of  human,  summer  lands. 

Existence  at  Furze  Cottage  had  compensations;  she  could 
number  them  on  three  fingers — her  music,  Mary,  and  Jim 
Crow. 

Music  was  part  of  her  way  of  feeling  things.  She  fled  to 
it  also  for  utterance,  and,  knowing  nothing  of  the  ultra-modern 
school,  she  found  her  expression  in  Schubert,  Chopin,  Liszt, 
and  Grieg.  She  had  one  of  those  soft,  moaning  voices,  of  not 
great  power,  but  boasting  some  of  the  arrestive  strangeness 
of  the  voice  of  an  oracle.  She  read  Maeterlinck  with  passion, 
and  his  spirit  was  in  her  and  her  singing. 

Mary,  the  servant,  was  an  immense  cushion.  She  had  the 
gift  of  sympathy,  and  of  letting  people  lean  against  her  and 


THE  WHITE  GATE  45 

get  rested.  Moreover,  she  was  very  fond  of  Constance,  and 
love  counts  in  a  wilderness. 

As  for  Jim  Crow,  that  fledgeling  who  had  been  sold  to 
Constance  by  a  farmer's  boy,  he  lived  in  a  box  fastened  to  a 
laburnum  tree  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  and  was  the  one 
comic  character  in  the  girl's  life.  With  one  wing  clipped,  he 
came  flopping  and  cawing  towards  her  whenever  she  ap- 
peared in  the  garden,  stood  at  her  feet,  cocking  a  blue  eye, 
or  pulled  her  shoe-laces  undone  with  facetious  solemnity. 
Jim  was  the  one  person  who  had  no  respect  for  the  dog 
Gussie,  and  perhaps  part  of  Constance's  love  for  the  bird 
went  to  the  mischievous  and  sly  ferocity  with  which  he  tor- 
mented the  Pekinese.  Jim  seemed  to  have  sufficient  sense  to 
make  these  attacks  when  the  yellow  head  was  within  doors. 
If  Gussie  tried  to  sleep  anywhere  in  the  garden  Jim  came 
stalking  up  and  pulled  his  tail  or  tweaked  his  ears.  The 
Pekinese  would  start  up,  yap,  and  snarl,  but  he  was  a  coward, 
and  whole-heartedly  afraid  of  the  big  black  bird.  It  was  one 
of  Connie's  joys  to  see  an  indignant  mop  of  fluff  being  chased 
up  the  garden  by  the  crow.  Jim  would  come  and  sit  on  her 
wrist  after  the  performance  and  be  stroked.  His  blue  eyes 
appeared  to  say:  "All  right,  you  leave  it  to  me.  I'll  take  it  out 
of  the  little  beast  sometimes." 

The  experiences  of  the  last  few  years  had  taught  Constance 
Brent  to  think,  and  she  had  come  to  realise  the  significance 
of  her  isolation.  She  could  remember  the  time  when  she  had 
said  to  herself:  "Oh,  things  will  be  better  next  year.  We 
may  get  to  know  people.  It  can't  go  on  like  this."  But  that 
was  just  what  the  present  life  persisted  in  doing,  in  going 
on  and  on  indefinitely  in  the  same  dull,  muffled  way.  Constance 
had  faced  the  panic  thought  that  it  might  go  on  and  on  like 


46  THE  WHITE  GATE 

this  for  ever  and  ever,  and  that  she  would  get  up  and  go  to 
her  window  each  morning,  and  see  the  same  view  till  the  day 
of  her  death. 

There  had  been  periods  of  bitter  rebellion,  a  beating  of 
wings  that  had  broken  helplessly  against  her  mother's  cynical 
apathy. 

"Of  course,  if  you  like  to  go  out  and  scramble  with  the 
fools  who  live  on  tea  and  buns,  well  and  good.  But  I  shan't 
offer  to  help  in  the  scramble.  Don't  be  an  idiot,  Connie.  You 
are  not  made  for  that  sort  of  life.  You  don't  know  what  it 
means." 

"But  I'm  no  good  to  you  here.  Gussie  is  a  much  better 
companion  than  I  am.  And " 

"You  want  a  new  frock.  Or  perhaps  you  would  like  to  go 
out  as  a  governess,  though  I  don't  know  what  on  earth  you 
could  teach.  You  haven't  anything  that  the  world  wants,  any- 
thing that  it  will  give  money  for,  except " 

She  broke  off  suddenly  with  a  queer  laugh,  and  looked  at 
the  girl  with  a  moment's  critical  interest. 

"You  are  just  a  bit  French,  you  know — all  eyes  and  white 
skin.  I  suppose  you  haven't  learnt  the  pussy-cat  wisdom  of 
finding  someone  who  can  give  you  a  pleasant,  sheltered 
corner?" 

"Don't,  mother.  I  shall  never  marry.  How  could  I?" 

"There  is  no  need  to  throw  the  blame  on  me.  If  your  father 
had  not  had  the  head  of  a  sheep " 

The  realisation  of  her  own  helplessness  made  Constance's 
moods  more  bitter.  The  sensitive  and  idealistic  youth  in  her 
rebelled  against  the  world's  callous  and  unjust  ordering  of 
everything.  She  was  very  feminine,  and  discontent  made  the 
lives  that  she  imagined  other  women  to  lead  seem  ten  times 


THE  WHITE  GATE  47 

more  mysterious  and  desirable.  She  knew  that  she  would  like 
to  be  exquisitely  dressed,  even  to  the  very  last  delicate  detail, 
to  be  able  to  wear  French  lingerie,  the  smartest  of  shoes,  beau- 
tiful lace,  tailor-made  costumes,  well-fitting  gloves.  Oh,  she  was 
sick  of  cotton  and  flannel,  cheap  blouses,  and  the  old  black 
stockings  that  Mary  darned  so  beautifully.  Dora  Brent  did 
not  appear  to  care  what  her  daughter  wore.  Constance  had 
no  fixed  allowance,  and  her  mother  always  protested  poverty 
when  she  looked  at  the  shop  windows  in  Reading,  and  thought 
of  what  she  herself  desired  and  what  would  do  for  the 
daughter. 

This  longing  for  material  things  was  but  a  small  part  of 
Constance's  discontent.  She  wanted  to  live,  to  do  what  other 
people  did,  to  go  to  Henley  and  Ascot,  and  spend  a  month  in 
London,  to  see  Paris,  France,  Italy.  She  was  hungry  and 
starved,  full  of  a  yearning  for  the  human  touches  of  life, 
for  the  interplay,  the  laughter,  the  exultation  of  youth.  She 
was  ready  to  be  passionately  interested  in  everything,  but  Fate 
had  ordered  her  into  a  corner  and  told  her  to  turn  her  eyes 
to  the  wall. 

Constance  Brent  made  no  more  appeals  to  her  mother,  and 
her  impulse  towards  rebellion  took  a  more  secret  and  inward 
course.  She  felt  driven  to  break  out,  to  assert  herself,  to  seize 
life  by  the  sleeve  and  insist  upon  its  noticing  her.  Had  she 
been  ten  years  older  she  would  have  known  how  near  she 
was  to  despair,  and  to  the  terrible  desire  that  overtakes  the 
best  of  us — the  desire  to  cease  from  existing. 

Trivial  incidents  were  needed  to  join  up  the  wires  and  to 
cause  a  flash  of  revolt. 

Jim  Crow  was  largely  responsible  for  something  that  hap- 
pened about  that  time.  The  Pekinese  lay  asleep  in  the  veranda 


48  THE  WHITE  GATE 

one  morning,  when  Jim  came  across  the  lawn  with  an  ob- 
servant blue  eye  turned  upon  the  house.  The  opportunity 
tempted  him.  There  was  a  yelp,  a  scuffle,  and  a  sudden  up- 
rising of  wrath  within  an  open  French  window.  A  book — 
thrown  viciously — caught  the  crow  sideways,  elicited  a  loud 
squawk,  and  sent  him  retreating  in  flopping  confusion  down 
the  path. 

Partisans  were  up  in  arms. 

"You've  hurt  Jim!  Oh,  you've  hurt  him!" 

"Go  and  call  Harry.  I'll  have  the  bird's  neck  wrung.  He's 
always  tormenting  the  dog." 

"If  you  tell  Harry  to  touch  Jim,  I'll  take  the  dog  and  drown 
him.  I  mean  it." 

Her  white  face  blazed  as  she  followed  the  bird,  who  was 
settling  his  dignity  and  uttering  self-encouraging  squawks. 
He  brisked  up  when  Constance  approached,  blinking  an  eye, 
and  hopped  on  to  the  wrist  she  held  towards  him. 

"Poor  old  Jim!" 

She  had  never  before  felt  such  bitter  wrath  against  her 
mother.  Certainly  the  bird  had  been  the  aggressor,  but  he 
typified  in  his  way  the  spirit  of  rebellion  against  the  rule  of 
lap-dogs  and  apathy. 

The  afternoon  found  her  starting  off  on  one  of  her  lonely 
walks,  feeling  that  she  could  not  bear  to  sit  opposite  her 
mother  in  the  pony-cart,  and  look  into  the  sulky,  hard,  white 
face  under  the  yellow  hair.  Yet  there  are  times  when  the 
most  perfect  country  is  detestable,  a  certain  temperament  being 
needed  by  those  who  are  to  succeed  in  being  eternally  inter- 
ested in  Nature.  The  heartache  of  youth  cannot  be  lost  in 
studying  the  ways  of  the  dodder  plant  or  the  sundew,  in  watch- 
ing ants  at  work,  or  in  collecting  specimens  for  systematic 


THE  WHITE  GATE  49 

botany.  Nor  can  the  exotic  modern  spirit  bear  too  much 
Arcadian  loneliness,  or  the  tantrums  of  a  perverse  climate.  It 
seeks  to  build  itself  cities  of  refuge  into  which  it  can  retreat 
when  that  mob-woman,  Nature,  beats  her  drum  and  brandishes 
her  red  flag,  or  seeks  to  make  long  and  boring  orations. 

The  shadeless  road  over  the  heath  revelled  in  glare  that 
afternoon,  and  the  heather  had  lost  its  richness  and  had  taken 
on  duller,  rustier  tones.  Now  and  again  a  motor  passed.  Con- 
stance Brent  felt  that  she  detested  motors,  and  the  people  who 
owned  them.  They  exaggerated  the  sense  of  life's  limitations, 
so  far  as  she  was  concerned.  The  people  appeared  to  stare  so 
hard  as  they  whirled  by,  and  for  one  moment  she  had  an 
absurd  and  primitive  desire  to  put  out  her  tongue.  At  all  events 
it  was  humiliating — as  the  mood  held  her — to  be  left  behind 
feeling  a  creature  of  the  meaner  sort. 

A  long  grey  car  overtook  her  and  swept  past,  driven  by  a 
fresh-coloured  young  man  in  a  brown  coat.  He  was  alone, 
and  he  glanced  round  at  Constance  as  he  passed  her  with  an 
interested  glare  of  his  blue  eyes. 

When  the  car  had  travelled  about  two  hundred  yards  be- 
yond her,  Constance  saw  it  draw  to  the  side  of  the  road  and 
stop.  A  brown  figure  climbed  out,  and  disappeared  behind 
the  grey  body  of  the  car.  She  knew  the  man  quite  well  by 
sight,  young  Bertie  Gascoyne,  of  Winwood  Place.  He  always 
stared  rather  hard  when  he  passed  her  on  the  road. 

As  she  drew  level  with  the  car  Constance  saw  him  bending 
forward  over  a  front  mudguard.  Something  about  the  waiting 
expectancy  of  a  half-turned  profile,  the  furtive  side  glint  of 
an  eye,  flashed  home  the  thought  that  he  was  about  to  speak 
to  her.  Intuition  triumphed.  Bertie  Gascoyne  lifted  his  tweed 
cap  and  smiled  rather  foolishly. 


50  THE  WHITE  GATE 

It  was  a  challenge,  and  she  knew  it.  The  next  instant  she 
had  smiled  back  at  him. 

"Jolly  warm,  isn't  it?" 

"Very." 

She  felt  a  sudden  heat  go  over  her.  The  impulse  towards 
revolt  blazed  up  and  seized  its  fuel.  She  faltered,  and  then 
stopped,  conscious  of  the  red  blood  in  her  cheeks. 

"Is  it  a  breakdown?" 

"Nothin'  much.  Had  a  new  carburettor  fitted,  and  just  givin' 
it  a  trial." 

He  stood  half  turned  towards  her,  one  hand  fiddling  with 
something  under  the  bonnet.  He  was  a  big  young  man,  with 
a  youthful  largeness  of  manner,  long-sighted  eyes  the  colour 
of  speedwell  but  without  depth,  throat  and  face  burnt  a  rich 
red  brown.  A  kind  of  sheepish  self-assurance  went  with  his 
flat,  round  face  and  large  body.  The  mouth  was  rather  too 
soft  and  loose,  the  teeth  within  very  white  when  he  smiled. 

"You  been  walkin'?" 

"Yes." 

"Too  jolly  hot.  I  say,  let  me  take  you  for  a  spin;  it's  the 
coolest  thing  goin'." 

So  was  he — in  a  sense.  His  large  manner  seemed  to  grow 
larger,  as  though  an  additional  impression  of  size  were  needed 
to  carry  off  the  informality  of  the  whole  affair.  Constance  felt 
his  blue  eyes  tentatively  searching  her  face.  She  was  conscious 
of  an  exquisite  suggestion  of  mischief,  of  a  moment's  flitting 
behind  the  footlights.  Young  Gascoyne  was  trying  not  to  look 
afraid  of  a  possible  snub.  She  felt  the  power  of  her  silence, 
and  it  delighted  her,  for  life  had  hardly  ever  given  her  the 
chance  of  refusing  anything. 

"Go  for  a  drive?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  51 

"Why  not?" 

"I  have  been  abusing  motors  for  the  last  half-hour." 

"Beastly  things  when  you  are  walkin'.  My  'Hawk's*  a 
ripper.  Just  you  let  me  show  you  what  she  can  do." 

She  nodded  and  smiled.  The  conspiracy  was  complete. 

Bertie  Gascoyne  gave  a  queer  laugh,  and  his  blue  eyes  took 
on  a  glaring  hardness.  He  turned  to  the  car,  and  then  glanced 
round  at  her  with  an  air  of  heavy  slyness.  Constance  noticed 
what  a  thick  red  neck  and  big  hands  he  had.  A  momentary 
fastidiousness  attacked  her,  a  sensitive  shrinking  from  this 
big  creature,  a  feeling  almost  akin  to  fear.  Then  young  Gas- 
coyne's  face  came  up  and  smiled  at  her.  Surely  it  was  a  mere 
piece  of  rebellious  fun,  unconventional  no  doubt,  yet  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world. 

She  found  herself  leaning  back  in  the  well-cushioned  seat 
beside  this  stranger,  a  rug  over  her  knees,  the  glass  screen 
keeping  off  the  draught  and  the  flies.  The  car  was  gathering 
speed,  and  for  a  minute  or  more  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
white  ribbon  of  the  road  that  seemed  to  slide  towards  them 
and  disappear  down  the  throat  of  the  great  car.  Beside  her 
sat  the  young  man  with  the  brown,  face  and  the  staring  blue 
eyes  that  puzzled  her. 

"How  fast  we  are  going!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sudden  shyness  that  would 
have  made  a  more  sensitive  man  than  Herbert  Gascoyne 
wholly  her  servant,  but  this  god  in  the  car  was  a  young  bar- 
barian out  for  his  own  pleasure.  He  belonged  to  a  type  that 
is  excessively  healthy,  and  whose  appetites  are  very  much 
alive.  Constance  did  not  guess  the  insult  his  inward  attitude 
towards  her  was  levelling  at  her  pride. 


52  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"She  can  go!  You  wait  till  we  get  to  Hanger  Hill,  then 
I'll  let  her  rip!  You  don't  mind  going  the  pace?" 

"No,  it's  splendid." 

He  laughed,  enjoying  the  little  innuendo  by  himself,  but 
imagining  that  the  girl  had  understood  it  perfectly.  She  was 
sitting  relaxed,  her  eyes  half  closed,  her  mood  for  the  mo- 
ment one  of  exquisite  exhilaration.  She  was  wondering 
whether  they  would  meet  anyone  who  knew  them  by  sight. 
If  the  man  did  not  care,  certainly  she  did  not.  Nothing  mat- 
tered at  Roymer. 

Brown  heathlands,  dull  green  woods,  blue  sky,  silvery  dis- 
tances swam  and  melted,  raced  and  changed.  A  delightful 
physical  languor  stole  over  her.  It  was  like  being  carried  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind. 

"Here's  Hanger  Hill.  Hold  tight!" 

They  seemed  to  drop  down  the  hill  like  a  spent  shell  re- 
turning to  earth.  Trees  and  telegraph  poles  went  by  in 
rhythmic  flashes.  The  girl  felt  life  rising  to  her  throat  as  she 
sat  with  her  two  feet  pressing  hard  against  the  slope  of  the 
footboard.  She  had  a  wild  desire  to  laugh,  even  to  cry  out. 

They  were  down  in  the  trough  of  a  valley.  The  farther 
slope  rose  against  them,  white  and  steep  and  menacing.  Up 
and  up  swept  the  car.  There  was  the  quickened,  racing  roar  of 
the  powerful  engine. 

Young  Gascoyne  turned  and  glanced  at  her.  His  eyes  were 
alight,  his  lips  parted  over  white  teeth. 

"Not  quite  all  the  way  on  top." 

The  rush  through  the  air  and  along  the  steep  windings  of 
the  road  made  her  feel  a  vague  respect  for  the  man  who  sat 
there  and  drove.  There  seemed  something  solid  yet  alert  about 
him,  a  male  effectiveness  that  counted. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  53 

"How  many  miles  an  hour  was  that?" 

"Oh,  about  sixty.  Hanger  Hill's  a  bit  tricky." 

"Is  it  very  difficult  to  drive?" 

"Like  to  learn?" 

"I  should  never  have  the  nerve." 

"Timid  thing!" 

"I  should  lose  my  head." 

She  was  puzzled  by  the  way  he  looked  at  her,  and  by  the 
casual  bravado  in  his  voice.  It  did  not  occur  to  Constance 
Brent  that  this  young  man  measured  his  respect  for  her  by 
the  yellowness  of  her  mother's  head,  and  that  he  allowed 
himself  the  right  of  easy  familiarity.  He  was  out  for  pleasure, 
and  he  considered  that  this  girl  who  had  that  woman  for  a 
mother  might  be  quite  ready  to  please  him. 

"Often  wanted  to  speak  to  you,  you  know." 

"Have  you?" 

"Rather." 

She  knew  practically  nothing  of  men,  and  it  was  this  very 
innocence  that  made  her  think  Herbert  Gascoyne  a  blunt 
and  ingenuous  boy.  They  were  on  the  homeward  road  now, 
and  she  dallied  with  a  strange  new  sense  of  power,  the 
power  of  the  feminine  creature  to  provoke  and  please  the 
male.  Bertie  Gascoyne  laughed  and  flirted,  and  became  rather 
fatuously  personal.  It  was  only  when  the  Hesketh  Powers' 
car  flashed  round  a  corner,  with  Philippa  Power's  grey  eyes 
looking  straight  at  both  of  them,  that  the  young  man  uttered 
a  suppressed  "Damn,"  and  grew  less  talkative. 

Constance  noticed  the  changed  atmosphere.  Perhaps  he 
was  thinking  that  he  ought  not  to  have  tempted  her  into  this 
exuberant  piece  of  mischief,  though  Constance  need  not  have 


54  THE  WHITE  GATE 

worried  her  head  about  young  Gascoyne's  hypothetical  chiv- 
alry. He  was  not  thinking  of  the  girl  at  all,  but  of  himself. 

"Shall  I  put  you  down  past  the  'Three  Firs'?" 

"Please." 

They  grew  silent,  self-conscious,  and  ill  at  ease.  Herbert 
Gascoyne  had  opened  the  throttle,  and  let  the  car  travel  at 
full  speed.  The  little  white-faced  inn  came  into  view,  and  the 
three  fir  trees  on  the  grass  knoll  in  the  dip  beyond.  Young 
Gascoyne  let  the  car  thunder  on  till  it  had  passed  the  trees, 
and  then  pulled  up  with  a  suddenness  that  made  the  brakes 
scream.  He  leant  across  and  opened  the  door. 

"Awfully  good  of  you  to  have  come." 

"I  have  enjoyed  it." 

His  brown  face  was  very  close,  his  blue  eyes  staring  into 
hers. 

"I  say,  you  go  for  walks  sometimes?" 

"Yes." 

"Wonder  if  you'd  let  me  come?" 

"I  don't  know." 

She  escaped  and  climbed  out,  feeling  her  face  burning. 

"Well,  may  I?" 

The  spirit  of  revolt  was  still  strong  in  her. 

"Perhaps." 

He  waved  his  cap  and  drove  on,  his  blue  eyes  watching 
the  road. 

"Sly  little  bit  of  goods!  Now,  I  wonder " 


v3 AUNT BRING  out  early  with  a  pipe  between  his  teeth, 
Skelton  crossed  the  footbridge  into  the  meadow,  strolled 
along  past  the  wire-netted  chicken-runs,  and  watched  the  sun 
climbing  above  the  black  tops  of  the  firs.  White  clouds  swam 
in  a  dense  blue  sky.  The  masses  of  ragwort  and  willow-herb 
were  all  purple  and  gold  along  the  hawthorn  hedge.  It  was  to 
be  a  day  for  colour,  for  cloud  shadows  upon  distant  woods 
and  pastures,  and  miraculous  silvery  lights  upon  sleepy  hills. 

But  Skelton  was  in  an  irritable  mood  that  morning.  He 
could  always  gauge  his  own  temper  by  the  way  the  hens  in 
the  wire  runs  affected  him  when  he  came  out  to  give  them 
their  early  meal. 

"Oh,  you  confounded  fools!" 

They  would  crowd  up  in  the  corners  nearest  to  the  cottage, 
waiting  for  him  to  appear,  and  then  run  along  the  wire  with 
fatuous,  scuffling  eagerness  towards  the  door  where  he  would 
enter.  They  repeated  the  same  manoeuvre  every  morning,  and 
showed  the  same  ridiculous  haste  in  racing  to  and  fro,  only 
to  end  up  at  the  place  where  any  sane  creature  would  have 

55 


56  THE  WHITE  GATE 

waited.  They  never  learnt  by  experience,  and  were  never 
an  oat  grain  the  wiser. 

"You  confounded  fools!" 

That  was  the  judgment  he  passed  upon  them  when  he 
was  not  in  the  best  of  tempers.  As  a  rule  he  was  more  play- 
ful, and  treated  them  to  badinage. 

"Hallo,  you  modern  democrats!  Scuffling  up  and  down  to 
get  the  first  peck  at  State  pickings!  There  is  always  the  man 
with  the  tin!" 

Or 

"Now,  my  dear  ladies,  this  is  breakfast — not  a  panful  of 
votes!  Don't  mob  me  off  the  earth!" 

But  this  morning  he  was  irritable,  and  their  diligent  greed 
and  the  tapping  of  their  beaks  on  the  tins  annoyed  him. 

It  was  Huxley  who  said  in  his  caustic,  smiling  way,  when 
discussing  the  question  of  the  elimination  of  "the  unfit,"  that 
there  are  times  when  the  best  of  us  would  doubt  our  right  to 
be  included  among  the  "fit."  On  the  one  side  the  heights,  on 
the  other  gulfs  of  gloom.  Only  the  healthily  stupid  people 
know  nothing  of  the  deeps  of  depression,  of  self-discontent, 
and  the  days  of  dust  and  ashes.  Perhaps  the  devil  of  depres- 
sion is  the  devil  of  the  modern  world.  The  balance  swings 
more  widely.  The  scheme  of  chiaroscuro  is  more  subtle  and 
more  sensitive.  Periods  of  creation  and  of  sorrowful  sterility 
alternate,  and  it  is  an  age  of  wonderful  creation  and  therefore 
of  sorrow.  No  man  is  more  miserable  than  the  creator  on 
those  days  when  his  brain  is  a  mere  skinful  of  lard. 

Skelton  had  still  to  fight  this  devil  of  depression.  It  had 
triumphed  over  him  after  his  nerve  had  given  way  after  the 
long  strain  of  overwork,  and  now  that  he  was  growing  strong 
again  this  devil  of  a  sick  self  still  struggled  to  regain  its  power. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  57 

But  it  had  become  a  more  insidious  spirit,  an  old  man  of  the 
sea,  taking  on  some  disquieting  shape,  and  changing  when 
grappled  with.  Sometimes  it  was  like  an  importunate  woman, 
whispering,  ogling,  plucking  him  by  the  sleeve. 

This  morning  in  the  meadow  below  the  fir  woods  it  came 
as  a  restless  voice,  questioning  him  like  the  voice  of  a  friend. 

"Is  this  the  right  life  for  you?" 

He  answered  the  voice  as  though  it  came  from  someone 
who  was  walking  beside  him. 

"It's  about  the  best  sort  of  life  a  man  can  ask  for  when  he 
can  count  only  on  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year.  I'm 
a  free  man.  I  can  concentrate  on  the  particular  work  that 
fascinates  me." 

The  voice  proceeded  to  argue. 

"I  consider  that  you  are  buried  here.  Why,  you  are  bored 
now — this  very  moment!" 

"Confound  you,  I'm  not!" 

"Oh,  very  well,  then!  But  just  think  of  the  men  who  are 
doing  big  things — building  new  bridges,  making  reputations 
and  a  lot  of  money.  And  you  go  on  pottering  along  here, 
working  at  this  precious  engine  of  yours,  and  trying  to  pre- 
tend  " 

Skelton  had  a  way  of  throwing  back  his  head  and  turning 
on  this  devil  of  depression,  cowardice  and  discontent. 

"Look  here,  Satan,  get  out!" 

He  uttered  the  words  aloud  and  with  such  fierceness  that 
Josh's  round  face  appeared  over  the  garden  hedge. 

"Did  you  call?" 

"Call  you?  No,  I  think  not." 

Skelton  shoved  his  hands  into  his  trousers  pockets  and 


58  THE  WHITE  GATE 

marched  up  and  down  the  edge  of  the  wood.  He  made  himself 
a  curt,  characteristic  and  inward  speech. 

"Now,  listen.  It  is  a  grand  day.  Just  look  at  the  blue  shadows 
on  the  woods  over  yonder.  See  them?  Well,  be  grateful. 

"At  nine  o'clock  you  will  enter  your  workshop  and  you  will 
work  there  till  twelve.  From  twelve  to  one  you  will  do  some 
hoeing.  You  will  be  allowed  an  hour  for  dinner  and  the  daily 
paper.  At  two  o'clock  you  will  return  to  the  workshop.  At  four 
you  will  have  tea.  After  tea  you  will  walk  up  to  see  Bobby 
Dent  at  the  'Three  Firs,'  and  take  him  the  parts  of  that  model 
engine.  You  will  be  back  by  seven.  You  will  have  supper, 
and  then  sit  down  and  hammer  out  some  of  those  calculations. 
At  ten  you  will  go  to  bed.  Understand?  Well,  don't  let  me 
have  to  mention  it  again." 

This  was  the  way  he  fought  these  moods,  disciplining  him- 
self, compelling  himself  to  use  the  scourge  of  a  strong  pur- 
pose. He  had  learnt  to  dread  and  to  avoid  those  pits  of  gloom 
into  which  weaker  men  fall  periodically.  Work,  a  passionate 
interest  in  everything  about  him,  the  building  up  of  sympathy 
and  understanding!  Bitter  experience  had  taught  him  that 
a  man  must  "live  out"  if  he  desires  to  live  at  all,  and  that 
humanity  heals  itself  by  being  human. 

Skelton  left  the  cottage  about  half-past  four,  locking  Josh 
out  of  it,  lest  he  should  get  to  the  larder  or  go  to  sleep  on 
the  couch,  and  started  through  the  fir  woods  for  Roymer 
Heath.  The  little  white-faced  inn  of  the  "Three  Firs"  blinked 
at  him  from  the  northern  sky  line  when  he  left  the  tall 
shadows  of  the  woods.  Set  upon  the  blue  ridge  where  the 
high  road  crossed  the  heath,  it  was  rarely  free  from  wind, 
and  its  signboard  was  nearly  always  swinging  and  creaking 
on  its  hinges. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  59 

Skelton  walked  up  the  dusty  road,  smiling  at  the  three  fir 
trees,  whose  attitudes  always  amused  him.  Two  of  them  grew 
rather  close  together,  their  outlines  suggestive  of  two  people 
kissing.  The  third  stood  a  little  apart,  a  tree  with  a  lopsided 
top  and  one  great  benedictory  bough  stretched  out  towards 
the  two  that  kissed.  "Bless  you,  my  children."  The  conceit 
had  struck  Skelton  the  very  first  time  he  had  seen  the  trees, 
and  to-day  the  benedictory  hand  of  the  "heavy  father"  was 
woggling  up  and  down,  while  the  lovers  swayed  and  thrilled. 

"If  I  were  the  'heavy  father,'  I  think  I  should  have  got  tired 
of  it  by  now!  Besides,  they  must  be  rather  bored  with  him!" 

Turning  into  the  bar  of  the  inn,  he  found  a  short,  squarish 
woman  reading  Chatty  Bits  behind  the  bar. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Dent " 

The  woman  whisked  the  paper  aside  and  stood  up.  She 
was  so  short  and  square  that  her  shoulders  only  just  managed 
to  overtop  the  bar.  She  wore  her  black  hair  plastered  down 
so  smoothly  that  it  looked  like  the  painted  hair  on  the  head 
of  a  china  doll. 

"Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Skelton,  sir." 

She  spoke  with  a  brisk  chirrup,  and  her  snub  nose,  blue 
eyes,  and  brick-red  cheeks  gave  her  a  cheeky  air.  That  she 
had  a  tongue  went  without  saying.  It  was  almost  impossible 
to  walk  round  her  loquacity,  for  it  was  as  square  and  as  full- 
hipped  as  her  person. 

"By  Jove,  you  have  got  some  dust  blowing  up  here." 

"What  may  I  'ave  the  pleasure,  sir,  of " 

"Oh,  ginger  beer." 

"Mr.  Skelton,  you  make  me  feel  mean,  you  do,  reely.  Just 
because  it's  a  pleasure  for  me  and  my  man " 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  drink  to  please  myself,  you  know!" 


60  THE  WHITE  GATE 

A  cork  popped,  and  Skelton's  drink  bubbled  into  a  glass. 

"Just  a  drop  of  gin,  sir?" 

"Well,  just  a  drop.  Where's  my  friend  Bobby?" 

"In  the  garden,  sir." 

"May  I  go  through?" 

"You're  welcome  to,  sir.  The  boy's  been  wondering  whether 
you  would  be  coming  up  this  week." 

There  was  a  patch  of  grass  behind  the  inn  shut  in  by  a 
thorn  hedge  and  shaded  by  three  starved  apple  trees.  Here, 
lying  on  a  folding  bed,  Skelton  found  Bobby  Dent  with  a 
book  under  his  chin.  The  boy  had  a  remarkable  resemblance 
to  his  mother,  save  that  he  was  white  where  she  was  red.  A 
tuberculous  hip  joint  had  kept  him  on  his  back  for  months. 

"Hallo!  What  is  it  to-day?" 

He  sat  down  on  an  upturned,  wooden  bucket  that  some- 
times served  Bobby  Dent  as  a  table,  and  tweaked  the  book 
away  from  under  his  chin. 

"Algebra  again!  And  quadratics,  too!  You  are  getting  on." 

The  boy  coloured  with  pleasure. 

"It  goes  down  easy." 

"You're  a  marvel!  When  you  get  that  leg  of  yours  well 
you'll  be  putting  on  seven-league  boots." 

Skelton  did  not  speak  in  jest.  The  lad  had  one  of  those 
delicate  and  acute  intelligences  shining  in  a  frail  body.  Gar- 
side,  the  doctor,  had  first  told  Skelton  about  him,  and  Skelton 
had  walked  up  to  the  "Three  Firs"  and  made  friends.  And 
from  the  friend  he  had  developed  into  the  fellow  enthusiast 
and  the  coach.  He  had  brought  young  Dent  books  on  algebra, 
trigonometry,  physics,  and  applied  mechanics,  coached  him, 
worked  out  problems  with  him,  and  been  astonished  by  the 
boy's  genius.  For  Bobby  Dent  of  the  chair-bed,  lying  under  the 


THE  WHITE  GATE  61 

apple  trees  at  the  back  of  the  "Three  Firs"  inn,  had  very  defi- 
nite ambitions. 

"I'm  going  to  be  an  engineer,  and  build  motors  and  steam 
engines,"  he  had  told  Skelton. 

And  Skelton  had  said:  "By  Jove!  you  shall." 

He  laid  the  text-book  back  on  the  bed. 

"Comes  easy  to  you,  Bobkin?" 

"I  seem  to  see  them  all  working  out,  sir,  just  like  sheep  go- 
ing through  a  gap  in  a  hedge." 

"Mathematical  imagination!  I  believe  you've  got  it." 

The  boy  looked  up  at  him  eagerly.  And  for  once  genius 
appeared  willing  to  clothe  itself  intelligently  in  the  flesh,  and 
not  to  hide  behind  muddy  eyes,  or  a  weak  chin  with  thin, 
silly,  unvirile  hair,  or  the  face  of  a  learned  boor. 

"But  I  do  want  to  get  up  off  this  bed.  You  know  you  said, 
sir,  you'd  let  me  come  down  to  your  workshop." 

"So  you  will  before  long.  I  don't  think  there  is  much  in  the 
way  of  toolcraft  I  can't  teach  you." 

He  felt  in  the  bulgy  side-pockets  of  his  Norfolk  and  brought 
out  two  brown  paper  parcels. 

"A  friend  of  mine  sent  these  down  from  London.  Have 
a  look  at  them,  Bobkin.  It  will  make  you  a  fine  puzzle." 

He  passed  them  over,  and  the  boy's  quick  fingers  picked  at 
the  knots. 

"Wait  a  moment;  we  ought  to  have  a  table  or  something." 

"There's  the  mangle-board  in  the  scullery.  Ask  mother." 

Mrs.  Dent  was  serving  a  carter,  the  beer  frothing  up  su- 
perbly in  the  mug. 

"Mangle-board?  I'll  get  it,  sir.  Bless  me!  Talking  of  mangles, 
that  puts  me  in  mind  of  how  he  took  the  mangle  to  pieces 
afore  he  was  ill.  Always  was  taking  things  to  pieces.  Took 


62  THE  WHITE  GATE 

the  kitchen  clock  to  pieces,  and  spent  three  blessed  weeks  get- 
ting it  right  again.  Til  send  it  over  to  Smith  at  Reading,'  says 
I.  'Mother,'  says  he,  flushing  up  like,  'do  you  think  I'm  a 
fool?  Smith  be  blowed!'" 

When  Skelton  returned  with  the  mangle-board  he  found 
Bobby  Dent  in  a  fever  of  delight.  The  brown  parcels  had 
contained  the  parts  of  a  model  motor-car  all  complete  and 
to  scale,  even  to  the  tiny  cogged  wheels  of  the  differential. 
The  little  brass  pieces  glinted  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  boy's 
fingers  touched  them  as  though  they  were  far  more  precious 
than  gold. 

"I  say,  Mr.  Skelton " 

"I  thought  that  would  fetch  you.  When  you  have  fitted  all 
those  parts  together  you  will  know  just  a  little  about  motor- 
cars." 

"You're  going  to  leave  'em  here?" 

"Of  course." 

Skelton  knew  now  where  life  kept  some  of  its  purest 
pleasures. 

They  played  together  for  the  best  part  of  an  hour,  children 
and  wise  old  men,  talking  of  crank  shafts  and  timing  gears 
and  universal  joints,  all  of  them  represented  in  the  exquisite 
model.  John  Cuthbertson  had  sent  it  down  from  his  works 
in  town.  "I  must  have  a  look  at  that  youngster  of  yours,"  he 
wrote,  "next  time  I  run  down.  As  for  you,  old  man,  you  seem 
to  be  finding  what  you  wanted." 

Skelton  started  home  by  Briar  Lane,  an  old  Roman  grass 
road  that  cut  the  heath  like  a  green  dyke.  The  lane  ran  within 
a  hundred  yards  of  Furze  Cottage,  and  the  white  house  with 
its  green  shutters  and  green  veranda  roof  lured  him  aside. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  63 

He  had  a  good  view  of  it  over  the  furze  bushes  and  between 
the  scattered  firs,  and  he  could  see  over  the  laurel  hedge  into 
the  garden,  with  its  small  lawns  and  geometrical  flower-beds 
filled  with  geranium  and  lobelia,  its  gravel  paths  and  gal- 
vanised-wire  arches  covered  with  clematis  and  roses.  The  stable 
was  on  the  east  of  the  house,  and  a  few  fantail  pigeons  sat  on 
the  ridge  tiles  of  the  roof.  The  place  looked  stupidly  neat, 
not  with  the  sleekness  of  art,  but  with  a  kind  of  suburban 
front-garden  neatness.  Skelton  imagined  that  no  one  was  par- 
ticularly interested  in  the  garden.  It  was  scrubbed  and  ironed, 
and  starched,  just  like  linen  sent  to  the  wash. 

As  he  came  nearer  he  heard  a  piano  being  played,  and  then 
a  voice  began  to  sing.  A  path  led  of!  from  Briar  Lane  to 
Furze  Cottage,  and  joined  the  by-road  there.  Skelton  turned 
into  the  path,  and,  reaching  the  shelter  of  the  laurel  hedge, 
stopped  to  listen. 

Skelton  knew  little  about  music.  He  remembered  that  in 
his  most  strenuous  days  he  had  had  a  barbaric  love  of  street 
organs,  rampant  marches,  and  songs  from  musical  comedy, 
liking  the  cheerful  clang  and  rhythm  that  seemed  to  speak 
of  the  clatter  of  hammers  or  the  whirl  of  dancers'  feet.  It  was 
only  when  his  first  strength  had  failed  him  that  he  had 
found  himself  in  the  humour  to  listen  to  the  more  subtle 
utterances,  recognising  in  them  something  essentially  modern, 
a  wounded  self-consciousness,  a  sentimental  and  tired  de- 
cadence. So  that  music  had  come  to  be  too  intimately  ex- 
pressive, moaning  with  him,  and  making  him  long  for  those 
strong,  barbaric  days  when  ordered  sound  was  as  the  clangour 
of  swords. 

As  he  listened  to  Constance  Brent  singing,  he  had  a  strange 


64  THE  WHITE  GATE 

feeling  that  Fate  was  at  work,  weaving  some  tragic  maze 
about  him — 

"Pale  hands  I  loved  beside  the  Shalimar. 
Where  are  you  now — where  are  you  now?" 

Skelton  felt  stricken.  It  was  like  the  cry  of  the  soul  of  the 
age,  awed  yet  rebellious,  conscious  of  faintness  under  the  stars 
that  shine  in  the  blackness  of  an  immense  mystery. 

"Drink  deep,  drink  deep  of  the  water,  Melisande." 

Why  should  he  feel  as  though  the  blood  of  his  soul  was 
flowing  out  upon  the  grass?  He  walked  on  slowly,  letting 
the  singing  voice  sink  deep  into  his  consciousness.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  listened  to  one  who  was  unhappy,  and 
on  the  edge  of  revolting  for  the  sake  of  self-expression.  The 
scene  on  the  terrace  at  "Vernors"  rose  up  before  him,  the 
pale  face  and  the  frightened  eyes. 

He  wanted  to  see  more  of  this  girl.  She  interested  him, 
interested  him  very  greatly. 

Ah,  yes,  he  was  a  fatherly  person.  But  interest?  He  caught 
up  the  word  and  held  it  before  him,  as  a  man  might  hold 
something  he  wished  to  examine.  Interest  1  Was  it  just  that — 
and  no  more? 


1  T  WAS  after  buying  tobacco  at  the  village  shop  that  Skel- 
ton  usually  ran  up  against  adventures.  An  imaginative  per- 
son might  have  expected  that  the  "King's  Head"  over  the 
way  would  have  provided  more  sumptuous  and  regal  hap- 
penings than  Mr.  Dutton's  general  shop,  but  Skelton  had 
found  the  "King's  Head"  dull  witted  and  rather  dirty. 

This  morning  there  was  no  splintering  of  spears  on  Roymer 
Green,  no  succouring  of  some  full-blooded  young  woman 
with  coal-black  hair,  red  lips,  and  eyes  like  sloes,  but  merely 
a  meeting  with  Mr.  James  Woodnut,  who  was  standing  out- 
side his  cycle  shop  with  his  right  hand  in  a  sling. 

The  projecting  boards  above,  fastened  by  iron  brackets, 
said  "Garage,"  "James  Woodnut,  Motor  and  Cycle  Agent," 
"Repairs."  The  gable  end  of  the  garage  and  the  red-tiled  walls 
above  the  shop  window  were  plastered  with  coloured  plates 
advertising  petrol,  bicycles,  and  motor  tires.  The  garage 
was  an  old  coach-house  that  had  been  glorified  and  fitted 
with  a  pit,  a  bench,  and  a  window  looking  out  on  a  back- 
yard. The  doors  were  half  open,  and  Skelton  could  see  the 

65 


66  THE  WHITE  GATE 

grey  nose  of  a  big  car  poking  out  like  a  pig's  snout  between 
palings. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Woodnut." 

"'Morning." 

The  cycle  and  motor  agent  had  a  round,  white,  greasy 
face,  with  pale  blue  eyes  that  never  brightened.  His  lower 
jaw,  which  was  rather  prominent,  showed  a  black  crop  of 
unshaven  hair  through  most  of  the  week.  The  hunch  of  the 
man's  shoulders  and  the  way  he  held  his  head  were  very  char- 
acteristic. He  was  one  of  those  slow,  stocky,  obstinate  mortals 
who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  get  on  in  the  world,  and  had 
put  his  head  down  and  butted.  He  had  butted  doggedly, 
consistently,  and  with  success.  Starting  life  as  a  boy  in  a 
bicycle  shop,  he  had  trained  himself  as  a  mechanic,  saved 
money,  and  came  up  spluttering  and  aggressively  successful. 
He  owned  cars  now,  letting  them  for  hire. 

"Something  wrong  with  the  hand?" 

"Split  a  finger,  and  it's  festered." 

"That's  bad  luck." 

"It  is." 

Woodnut  had  no  manners,  but  Skelton  liked  the  man, 
respecting  his  doggedness  and  his  pluck.  He  could  imagine 
how  that  slow-moving  brain  had  had  to  worry  at  the  tech- 
nical knowledge  of  his  trade,  for  Woodnut  had  taught  him- 
self, and  was  no  mean  mechanician. 

He  had  had  to  puzzle  it  all  through,  sitting  with  his  chin 
on  his  fists,  trying  to  see  things  with  those  unintelligent  eyes 
of  his.  "I  reckon  I  knocked  it  in  with  a  hammer,"  he  had 
said  once  to  Skelton,  "and  it  took  some  knocking,  I  can  tell 
you." 

Woodnut's  independence  was  apt  to  be  offensive.  He  did 


THE  WHITE  GATE  67 

not  converse,  he  blurted,  standing  with  his  feet  wide  apart, 
and  looking  as  though  he  were  for  ever  waiting  for  some- 
one to  patronise  or  contradict  him. 

"Hung  up  over  a  job?" 

"What  job?" 

"No  business  of  mine,  you  know." 

Woodnut  turned  and  scowled  at  the  grey  car  that  seemed 
to  be  poking  out  its  grey  snout  and  demanding  attention. 

"Got  this.  Darned  if  I  don't  wish  I  hadn't.  Young  Gas- 
coyne's  'Hawk.'  Seems  to  think  that  by  giving  me  the  job 
he'd  make  me  swell  with  pride." 

His  air  of  savage  melancholy  made  Skelton  want  to  laugh. 

"My  chap's  'on  his  holiday,  and  I  can't  touch  no  tools. 
Car  to  be  running  by  three  o'clock.  Sent  to  Thursleys  to  tell 
'em  to  send  a  chap  out.  Wired  back  couldn't  spare  one.  Just 
to  put  me  in  a  corner,  'cos  I've  cut  in  on  them  about  'ere. 
Young  Gascoyne  will  come  gassing  down  'ere,  and  I  don't 
know  as  I  shall  be  able  to  keep  civil." 

"What's  wrong  with  the  car?" 

Woodnut  swung  the  doors  open,  and  began  pumping  out 
jets  of  technical  jargon  that  only  an  expert  would  have  under- 
stood. Skelton  was  the  only  man  in  the  neighbourhood  to 
whom  he  would  have  condescended  to  talk  in  such  a  strain, 
but,  to  Jim  Woodnut,  Skelton  was  something  between  a  genius 
and  a  joss. 

"A  beauty,  ain't  she?  And  that  bloomin'  fool  of  an  amater 
does  knock  'er  about  shameful!" 

Skelton's  eyes  warmed  as  he  looked  at  the  great  car  painted 
battleship  grey,  with  its  gleaming  brasswork  and  lamps.  It 
said  so  much  to  him,  this  creation  of  man's  intricate  and  in- 
genious mind,  this  almost  live  thing  begotten  in  the  furnace 


68  THE  WHITE  GATE 

of  brain  and  workshop.  To  young  Herbert  Gascoyne  it  was 
just  a  luxurious  contrivance  for  rushing  hither  and  thither, 
a  sort  of  purring  triumphal  car  to  carry  his  youthful  swank. 
He  liked  to  talk  about  "top-gear  runs"  and  spasmodic  rushes 
through  imaginary  police  traps,  but  he  had  quite  a  vague 
idea  as  to  what  a  cam  was,  and  the  exquisite  subtleties  of 
engineering  craft  were  wholly  beyond  him. 

Jim  Woodnut's  contempt  for  young  Gascoyne  was  un- 
speakable. It  was  the  instinctive  contempt  of  the  man  who  had 
suffered  and  laboured  to  learn  for  the  smoking-room  amateur 
who  had  never  worked  and  who  knew  nothing  thoroughly. 

"  'E  does  bang  'er  about." 

They  examined  the  car  together. 

"I  say,  Woodnut,  there  are  only  two  or  three  hours'  work 
wanted  to  finish  this  job." 

"That's  so." 

"What's  the  time?  Eleven?  Look  here,  jump  me  into  a  suit 
of  your  overalls  and  I'll  finish  the  job." 

"You  do  it?" 

"Do  you  think  I  can't?" 

"Wasn't  thinking  nothin'  of  the  kind.  But  'tain't  your  busi- 
ness to  be  working  'ere — and  on  that  young  chap's  car." 

"Think  I'm  proud?" 

"It  ain't  for  you  to  do  work  for  that  young  squirt.  It's  my 
livin',  and  I'd  throw  'is  money  back  at  'im  for  tuppence." 

Skelton  laughed. 

"It's  for  the  car's  sake.  She's  sick,  poor  dear.  I  say,  Wood- 
nut,  if  you  let  out  like  this —  Half  of  us  may  be  fools,  but " 

"Do  you  think  I  let  my  tongue  run  with  everybody?  Not 
me!" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  69 

"Come  along,  then.  Fetch  me  a  pair  of  your  overalls,  and 
I'll  get  to  work." 

Woodnut  still  bristled. 

"It's  business.  I  pay  you  for  this  job — top  price." 

"Oh,  all  right.  It  will  keep  me  in  tobacco  for  a  month." 

"That's  square." 

Skelton  smiled  to  himself  as  he  took  off  his  coat  and  hung 
it  on  a  nail.  "Oh,  you  difficult,  touchy,  cross-grained,  efficient, 
independent  beggar!"  he  thought.  "Don't  I  know  the  type? 
Hadn't  I  something  of  it  in  me  myself?  One  has  to  try  and 
be  a  bit  of  everybody  in  order  to  understand  everybody.  And 
that's  life." 

Jim  Woodnut  brought  him  a  suit  of  clean  blue  overalls, 
and  Skelton  got  into  them  after  taking  off  his  collar  and  tie. 

"I  can  lend  you  one  'and." 

"Let's  have  the  doors  wide  open." 

"You  don't  mind  fools  garping?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

About  half-past  two  Bertie  Gascoyne  strolled  into  Wood- 
nut's  garage,  his  coat  unbuttoned,  and  a  tennis  racket  under 
his  arm.  He  was  in  flannels  and  white  boots,  the  trousers  well 
creased,  the  boots  spotless.  Woodnut  had  gone  up  the  village 
on  some  piece  of  business,  and  Bertie  Gascoyne  found  Skelton 
doubled  over  one  of  the  front  mudguards  with  his  head  under 
the  bonnet.  The  blue  coat  and  trousers  were  misleading,  and 
if  the  mechanic  was  not  Woodnut,  he  was — well,  a  mechanic. 

"Got  her  ready?" 

"Not  quite." 

"She's  got  to  be  ready  by  three.  Where's  Woodnut?" 

"Gone  up  the  village." 

"Who're  you?  Chap  he's  got  over  from  Thursleys?" 


70  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"No,  I'm  a  casual." 

Skelton  came  out  from  cover,  straightened  up,  and  looked 
at  Bertie  Gascoyne  with  a  disconcerting  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 
The  younger  man  stared. 

"I  say,  I  didn't  know " 

"That's  all  right.  Woodnut  has  a  poisoned  hand,  and  I  have 
been  amusing  myself." 

Young  Gascoyne  eyed  him  dubiously,  and  Skelton,  im- 
mensely amused,  guessed  what  was  passing  through  the  other's 
mind.  It  was  a  piece  of  cheek,  this  fiddling  with  another  chap's 
car.  Besides,  he — Bertie  Gascoyne — didn't  want  some  blessed 
amateur  messin'  about  and  makin'  a  muck  of  things. 

"I  say,  though,  what  was  wrong  with  her?" 

Skelton  got  back  to  work,  and  gave  Bertie  Gascoyne  sev- 
eral mouthfuls  of  highly  technical  material  to  munch. 

"Oh!  That's  it,  is  it?" 

He  looked  down  glumly  at  Skelton,  vaguely  disliking  the 
elder  man  for  a  certain  something  that  chafed  the  smooth 
surface  of  his  own  conceit. 

"Thought  it  was  that.  She's  been  a  bit  tricky  lately.  Think 
you've  got  her  all  right?" 

"Yes." 

"You  know  somethin'  about  cars?" 

"Just  a  little;  always  like  a  chance  at  a  bit  of  tinkering." 

Bertie  Gascoyne  relapsed  into  sulky,  distrustful  silence. 

Skelton,  intent  upon  screwing  up  a  nut,  glanced  round 
presently  to  find  that  the  young  man  had  disappeared.  The 
grey-coloured  double  doors  of  the  garage  thrown  wide  open 
framed  a  view  of  Roymer  Green,  with  the  red  brick  pump- 
house  in  the  centre  and  a  row  of  half-timbered  houses  in  the 


THE  WHITE  GATE  71 

background.  The  big  chestnut  tree  outside  Mr.  Button's  shop 
thrust  one  half  of  its  green  dome  into  the  picture. 

Bertie  Gascoyne  was  crossing  the  Green  as  though  he  were 
going  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Button's  shop,  and  from  under 
the  shade  of  the  chestnut  tree  came  a  figure  in  a  pink  linen 
dress.  A  pink  sunshade  went  up  where  the  white  glare  of 
the  road  began. 

Skelton  saw  young  Gascoyne  raise  his  hat  and  cross  the 
road.  The  girl  faltered  and  stopped.  They  stood  talking  to- 
gether, Bertie  Gascoyne  swinging  his  racket  to  and  fro,  Con- 
stance Brent  looking  up  at  him  from  under  the  shade  of  her 
parasol. 

Skelton  stood  up,  a  spanner  in  one  hand,  a  cleaning  rag 
in  the  other.  He  was  in  the  shadow,  and  it  made  his  watch- 
ing face  appear  darker  and  more  intent.  Bertie  Gascoyne  was 
talking  with  a  free  and  easy  graciousness,  swinging  his  racket, 
and  staring  hard  into  the  girl's  face.  She  appeared  uneasy, 
as  though  conscious  of  an  undesired  publicity,  her  dark  eyes 
throwing  flitting  glances  from  side  to  side. 

They  talked  for  litde  more  than  a  minute,  and  then  Skelton 
saw  Constance  Brent  turn  away  rather  abruptly  and  walk  on 
down  the  village.  Bertie  Gascoyne  went  on  towards  Mr.  But- 
ton's shop.  In  five  minutes  he  was  back  in  the  garage,  smoking 
a  cigarette,  and  looking  peculiarly  pleased  with  himself. 

"Nearly  ready?" 

"In  another  five  minutes." 

"Just  went  across  to  Button's.  He  gets  me  the  stuff  I  smoke." 

The  line  of  Skelton's  jaw  was  not  particularly  amiable. 
He  knew  men  pretty  thoroughly,  and  the  full-blooded  young 
animal  standing  in  the  doorway  was  neither  a  very  complex 
study  nor  a  very  pleasing  one.  The  hard  blue  eyes  were  gloat- 


72  THE  WHITE  GATE 

ting  over  something  in  the  distance,  the  selfish  eyes  of  the 
male  hunting  down  something  feminine. 

Skelton  had  a  moment  of  chivalrous  anger. 

"Damn  the  cub,"  he  said  to  himself.  "How  dared  the  young 
beast  look  at  that  girl  like  that!" 


Chapter  Six 


L  O  SOME  people  Roymer  seemed  in  sympathy  with  that 
school  of  fiction  that  scorns  anything  dramatic  and  prefers 
to  regard  life  as  one  long  flux  of  dreary  detail.  Blessed  is  the 
man  who  is  supremely  interested  in  details,  and  who  knows 
how  to  treat  them  as  tesserae  in  the  fascinating  mosaic  of 
life.  Brain  makes  for  the  difference  between  blessedness  and 
boredom. 

"Hallo!  That  you,  Skelton?  Coming  my  way?" 

"As  far  as  the  lane." 

"Good.  I  say,  I  have  got  a  beautiful  litde  bit  of  Mendelism 
with  those  birds  of  mine." 

Skelton  had  come  up  with  a  wiry,  energetic  figure  in  a 
rough  pepper-and-salt  tweed  suit,  with  an  Irish  terrier  trotting 
at  his  heels.  Captain  Strange,  R.N.,  was  sixty-five  and  had  the 
active  figure  of  a  boy.  You  could  tell  him  a  hundred  yards 
away  by  the  brisk  activity  of  his  legs,  the  keen  and  interested 
cock  of  the  head,  and  the  swing  of  the  broad  shoulders.  This 
sturdy  little  old  gentleman  had  all  that  delightful  courtesy 
that  a  sea  life  seems  to  give.  He  was  shrewd,  capable,  sharp  as 

73 


74  THE  WHITE  GATE 

a  needle,  and  clean  with  the  cleanliness  of  fifty  years  of  self- 
discipline.  His  iron-brown  profile  cut  through  all  pomposity 
and  affectation  like  the  merciless  ram  of  a  ship. 

"Just  been  up  to  O'Connor's.  The  man's  bored  to  death." 

"Too  much  money — and  too  much  food." 

"That's  it.  I  have  been  prescribing.  I  shall  have  Garside  fall- 
ing foul  of  me  for  poaching." 

"Oh,  Garside's  a  sportsman.  I  know  what  I  should  give 
O'Connor — three  years  on  a  desert  island  where  he  would 
have  to  knock  his  daily  dinner  down  with  a  stick." 

"By  George,  it's  pathetic!  I  found  him  going  over  his  lawn 
with  a  pot  of  acid  and  a  stick.  He  was  in  a  towering  rage 
because  there  were  so  many  dandelions." 

"Now,  if  they  had  been  sovereigns " 

"Yes!  I  said,  'All  right,  my  dear  man,  they  don't  bite; 
be  thankful  for  that.'  I  have  persuaded  him  to  get  an  electric 
lighting  plant  and  to  run  it  himself.  The  man's  so  pathetically 
ignorant.  He  knew  how  to  make  money,  that's  all;  and  now 
he  has  retired  he  hasn't  the  intelligence  to  amuse  himself." 

"It  seems  to  me,  sir,  you  are  one  of  us." 

"One  of  what?" 

"Garside  and  I  have  started  a  new  sort  of  Freemasonry. 
We  call  ourselves  The  Healers.' " 

"Healers!  That's  good — quite  good.  Though  I  think  I'm  a 
bit  of  a  blister.  Look  here,  come  in  and  have  tea,  and  I'll 
show  you  these  birds  of  mine." 

"I  should  like  nothing  better." 

They  talked  Mendelism  and  such  matters  as  "pure  domi- 
nants" and  the  "segregation  of  gametes"  till  they  hauled  up 
outside  a  red-brick,  red-tiled  house,  with  white  window  frames 
that  looked  at  them  over  the  top  of  a  square  clipped  yew  hedge 


THE  WHITE  GATE  75 

set  on  a  green  bank.  The  place  was  compact,  neat,  admirably 
kept,  and  yet  boasted  a  breadth  of  colour  and  of  atmosphere 
that  saved  it  from  primness.  It  suggested  cosmopolitanism  both 
outside  and  in.  The  rain  gauge  on  the  lawn,  the  maximum  and 
the  minimum  thermometers,  the  glass  sphere  up  above  on  the 
balcony  for  registering  the  day's  sunlight  by  a  burnt  pattern 
upon  a  scale,  the  barometers  in  the  hall,  the  telescope,  micro- 
scope, and  theodolite  in  the  library — all  these  seemed  to  belong 
by  right  to  the  keen  and  alert  figure  in  pepper-and-salt.  Travel 
had  left  its  broad  finger-prints  everywhere — on  the  Japanese 
carvings,  the  Spanish  paintings  on  glass,  the  Indian  ivories, 
the  Syrian  pottery,  the  antique  furniture,  the  fragments  of 
French  tapestry. 

A  tall  woman  wearing  gardening  gloves  came  from  behind 
one  of  the  herbaceous  borders.  She  looked  hot  and  toil-stained, 
and  quite  happy. 

"Kate,  I  have  brought  Skelton  back  to  tea." 

"I  was  just  waiting  to  see  who  was  with  you.  I  never  mind 
being  caught  in  a  pickle  by  people  who  know  what  work  is." 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  affectionately. 

"Thorough — that's  the  word.  It's  a  prejudice  of  ours,  Skel- 
ton, but  we  can't  stand  the  dilettante  people  who  talk  about 
'my  roses,'  and  who  never  did  anything  but  pay  for  the  bushes 
and  boast  about  the  flowers." 

Mrs.  Strange  drew  off  one  of  her  old  gloves  and  held  out 
a  hand  to  Skelton.  Her  tall,  stiff  figure,  narrow  at  the  hips 
and  shoulders,  and  an  air  of  kindly  austerity  would  have  made 
many  people  take  her  for  an  old  maid.  She  wore  her  hair 
drawn  back  neatly  from  her  forehead,  and  her  brown  eyes 
had  a  shy  reserve  behind  their  glasses.  Her  voice  was  quiet, 


76  THE  WHITE  GATE 

level,  and  unhurried.  She  did  not  rush  to  meet  the  world, 
but  stood  a  little  aloof,  watching. 

Tea  was  brought  out  under  the  shade  of  a  Himalayan  cedar. 
It  was  an  informal  affair,  with  basket  chairs  drawn  up  round 
a  wicker  table,  and  the  Irish  terrier  lying  at  Captain  Strange's 
feet. 

"I  found  O'Connor  trying  to  kill  dandelions,  and  almost 
weeping  with  rage  because  the  birth-rate  among  them  hap- 
pens to  be  so  high." 

"It  is  a  pity  to  let  one's  life  be  spoilt  by  dandelions!" 

"My  dear,  I  have  known  you  so  worried  by  weeds " 

"There  are  not  many  to  worry  me  now." 

"That's  it!  Believe  me,  Skelton,  my  wife's  a  born  adminis- 
trator. If  only  they  would  make  her  a  sort  of  female  dictator. 
Here  you  are,  now,  the  very  woman  to  listen  to  your  new 
philosophy." 

The  brown  eyes  behind  the  glasses  were  turned  inter- 
estedly towards  Skelton.  He  remembered  his  surprise  when 
he  had  first  discovered  that  this  shyly  austere  woman  was 
extraordinarily  human,  that  she  had  touched  the  many  sides 
of  life,  and  that  her  experience  was  as  delicately  shaded  as  a 
landscape  on  a  warm  April  day.  Her  insight  and  her  under- 
standing were  remarkable.  The  brown  eyes  would  light  up, 
the  kindly  quiet  voice  become  animated,  and  the  surface  im- 
pression of  primness  be  swept  away. 

"There  are  so  many  new  philosophies." 

"Mine  is  simple  enough.  The  art  of  helping  other  people 
to  live." 

"By  being  a  sort  of  modern  Mark  Tapley?" 

"Don't  tease,  Peter." 

"Skelton  suggested  I  should  become  one  of  the  brother- 


THE  WHITE  GATE  77 

hood.  Garside  does  the  electric  battery  part  of  it.  I  might  do 
for  a  bottle  of  iodine.  And  Skelton  himself " 

"He's  too  subtle  for  you,  Peter.  You  know  we  all  have  such 
raw  surfaces  at  times,  and " 

She  looked  smilingly  at  Skelton. 

"Some  soothing  cataplasm " 

"Or  a  vital  tonic  when  we  feel  empty  of  life.  It  is  really 
amazing  how  many  of  us  make  life  unbearable  for  each 
other." 

"I  don't  know,  Kate;  I  have  managed  to  stand  you,  some- 
how." 

"Thank  you.  I'm  a  believer  in  the  kindness  of  self-restraint. 
It  is  a  sort  of  quiet  courage  that  helps  us  and  others  over  the 
rough  places." 

Skelton  sat  watching  her,  thinking  what  an  admirable 
woman  she  was  with  her  shyness  and  her  subtle  sympathy. 

"Self-restraint — yes,  that's  one-half  of  the  picture.  But  I  be- 
lieve, too,  in  active  healing." 

"It  suits  you." 

"Me?" 

"I  did  not  say  you,  Peter.  You  are  stimulating  enough " 

"Thanks.  I'm  not  part  of  the  picture!  Look  here,  Skelton, 
who  do  you  practise  on  in  these  realms.  On  us?" 

"I  have  come  here  for  a  little  spiritual  morphia  sometimes. 
We  all  practise  on  each  other.  I  have  a  case  I  might  recom- 
mend to  Mrs.  Strange." 

"Oh,  come,  this  is  interesting!  Let  me  get  at  my  pipe.  It 
sounds  like  being  a  real  good  gossip.  Won't  you  smoke?" 

"May  I  ?  I  was  thinking  of  that  little  Brent  girl  up  on  the 
heath.  I  imagine  she  has  a  pretty  time  of  it.  And  it's  just  the 
rebellious  age." 


78  THE  WHITE  GATE 

He  tapped  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  against  his  palm,  and 
glanced  across  the  lawn  at  the  phloxes  in  one  of  Mrs.  Strange's 
herbaceous  borders. 

"I  say,  what  colour!  We  all  of  us  seem  to  hunger  for  colour 
of  some  kind  in  life." 

"Most  of  us  get  more  of  the  blues  than  we  want." 

Catharine  Strange  gave  her  husband  a  look  of  appeal,  a  look 
that  said,  "Now,  you  incorrigible  old  tease,  we  want  to  be 
serious." 

He  smiled  at  her  affectionately  and  understandingly. 

"Don't  mind  my  patter.  As  for  colour  of  a  kind,  by  Jove, 
the  child  must  see  enough  of  it!" 

He  caught  Skelton's  eye,  and  nodded  reassuringly. 

"It's  a  horrid  habit  of  mine,  I  know,  this  facetiosity.  Why 
haven't  we  called,  Kate?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  really  don't  think  it  occurred  to  me.  Do 
you  think  the  girl " 

She  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  Skelton  to  speak. 

"I  think  she  must  be  very  lonely  and  pretty  miserable,  and 
when  we  are  miserable " 

"We  take  to  drink!" 

"Peter,  what  a  bore  you  are  sometimes." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  No  more  squibs." 

Skelton  was  biting  his  pipe  rather  hard,  and  staring  at  the 
dog  who  lay  asleep  at  Strange's  feet. 

"I'll  tell  you  something.  When  I  was  a  youngster  in  town 
I  was  lonely  at  first,  most  accursedly  lonely.  I  used  to  rage 
along  the  streets  at  night.  No  one  spoke,  except — yes,  just 
that.  Poor  beggars!  But  it  used  to  put  me  in  a  fever,  just  to 
have  them  looking  me  in  the  face.  I  wanted  something  human, 
something  that  seemed  to  care  ever  so  little.  Just  before  it 


THE  WHITE  GATE  79 

became  too  bad  I  got  to  know  the  man  who  has  been  the  very 
best  friend  I  have  ever  had." 

A  quiet  light  came  into  Catharine  Strange's  eyes. 

"I  will  go  and  call  in  a  day  or  two.  We  could  ask  the  girl 
here." 

"And  all  your  dear  friends?" 

"You  know  very  well,  Peter,  that  none  of  my  friends  are 
prigs  or  prudes." 

"Of  course  not.  Say  acquaintances,  then." 

"Acquaintances  do  not  count." 

Skelton's  eyes  flashed  her  his  homage. 

"You  will  do  her  good,"  he  said. 

When  he  rose  to  go,  Catharine  Strange  went  with  him  to- 
wards the  gate  and  lured  him  aside  to  look  at  some  of  her 
treasures.  She  loved  her  garden,  and  slaved  for  it  with  a 
tenderness  that  was  made  happy  by  some  exclamation  drawn 
from  an  acquaintance  or  a  friend.  As  for  the  captain,  he 
remained  stuck  to  his  chair,  perfectly  conscious  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  intended  to  show  Skelton  an  example  of  Mendel- 
ism  that  he  had  worked  out  with  his  fowls. 

"Confound  the  chickens!  Kate  does  love  to  get  hold  of 
someone  and  show  off  her  garden.  And  she  deserves  it,  by 
George!" 

Catharine  Strange  was  walking  slowly  along  the  borders, 
happy  in  the  knowledge  that  the  man  beside  her  saw  every- 
thing and  saw  it  well. 

"That's  Iris.  Isn't  she  beautiful?" 

"Perfect." 

"And  don't  you  like  that  little  bit  there — the  big  yellow 
achillea  and  the  steel-blue  echinops?" 

"That's  a  touch  of  genius." 


8o  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"As  we  were  saying,  some  of  us  simply  thirst  for  colour.  It 
it  a  passion  when  we  are  young.  Is  Constance  Brent  a  sensi- 
tive?" 

"That's  the  tragic  part  of  it.  I  had  a  talk  with  her  one  day 
at  'Vernors.' " 

"Yes,  I  remember  seeing  you.  I  am  interested  in  sensitives. 
I  don't  think  I  care  for  cows  and  calves." 

"I  think  just  a  touch  from  an  understanding  hand.  You  see, 
it's  a  woman's  affair." 

"Is  it— always?" 

The  question  was  a  frank  one,  and  he  answered  it  frankly. 

"One  does  not  want  to  see  a  girl  like  that  left  alone  to  talk 
to  some  young  cad.  I'm  interested.  I  don't  like  to  see  such  a 
child  suffer." 

"No,  not  when  one  has  suffered,"  she  said  very  gently. 


A  FULL  moon  had  risen  over  Roymer  Heath,  changing 
from  copper  to  silver  as  it  rose  higher  in  the  sky.  The  August 
night  was  warm  and  oppressively  still,  so  warm  and  oppres- 
sive that  Constance  Brent  had  both  the  door  and  the  French 
windows  of  the  drawing-room  wide  open.  Her  mother  had 
gone  to  bed  half  an  hour  ago. 

She  stood  at  one  of  the  windows,  leaning  against  the  frame, 
and  the  simple  white  blouse  and  skirt  that  she  was  wearing 
were  like  the  white  petals  of  a  flower  that  waits  for  the  coming 
of  some  big  moth.  The  lad  who  looked  after  the  garden  had, 
by  some  blessed  lapse  from  stupid  uniformity,  sown  night 
stock  in  the  bed  below  the  veranda,  and  the  scent  of  it  filled 
the  air.  The  night  had  a  strange  sensuousness,  and  this  subtle 
scent  was  like  the  perfume  of  some  scented  body  wrapped 
in  rich  fabrics  and  stretched  in  sleep  behind  hangings  of 
eastern  silk.  Stars  flickered  in  the  soft  sky.  The  very  shadows 
had  a  feminine  suggestiveness,  and  stretched  out  desirous  and 
alluring  arms.  Southwards  the  heathland  rolled,  a  sea  of 
tarnished  silver  stippled  with  the  black  masts  of  solitary  pines. 

81 


82  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Queer  wisps  of  white  mist  lay  in  the  hollows,  spirits  rising 
from  earth  with  a  floating  whirl  of  diaphanous  tissues. 

Utter  stillness  prevailed,  the  stillness  that  surrounds  an  iso- 
lated house  in  the  country  on  a  windless  summer  night,  yet 
Constance  Brent  felt  restless,  yearning  for  something  she  knew 
not  what.  She  had  a  vision  of  life  hurrying  on  and  leaving 
her  alone  in  the  wilderness.  Had  she  but  heard  the  moaning 
of  violins  and  the  soft,  sibilant  swish  of  swinging  skirts,  she 
would  have  held  out  her  hands  for  a  partner,  though  believing 
that  no  one  would  ask  her  to  dance.  It  was  a  night  for  ghosts, 
the  ghosts  of  many  hopes  that  laugh,  whisper,  and  vanish  into 
the  darkness.  Never  had  she  felt  more  alone,  more  smothered 
behind  the  curtains  of  a  house  in  which  nothing  happened. 

The  hunger  for  life  cried  out  in  her,  and  the  silence  of  the 
moonlit  landscape  flung  the  cry  back.  Oh,  for  some  sound, 
even  the  barking  of  a  dog!  She  turned,  opened  the  piano,  sat 
down,  and  let  her  hands  wander.  Then  her  white  throat 
lengthened.  Song  rose  in  it  like  wine  into  the  throat  of  a 
Grecian  vase.  It  passed  her  lips  and  flowed  out  into  the 
moonlight: 

"Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns." 

She  sang  on  in  the  darkness,  her  eyes  half  closed,  her  white 
throat  a  throbbing  curve. 

Upstairs  a  bell  began  to  jangle,  making  an  ill-tempered,  out- 
raged clangour.  And  to  amplify  the  discords  a  dog  began 
to  yap. 

Constance  swept  an  impatient  hand  over  the  notes,  crashed 
out  a  dissonance,  and  stood  up.  Her  mother's  handbell  still 
jangled.  In  the  hall  she  met  Mary  pinning  on  a  cap  hurriedly, 
and  looking  sleepy  and  solicitous. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  83 

"I  had  dropped  off  in  my  chair.  Shall  I  go,  Miss  Connie?" 

"No,  I  will,  Mary." 

A  light  was  burning  in  Dora  Brent's  room,  and  Gussie, 
offensively  awake,  capered  about  the  bed,  yapping.  The  hag- 
gard face  under  a  grotesque  and  frowsy  arrangement  of  pins 
and  wisps  of  hair  was  the  face  of  fury,  the  half-moon  mouth 
drawn  down  at  the  angles  and  open  as  though  to  screech. 

"Didn't  you  know  I  had  a  headache?  Waking  Gussie  up 
just  as  I  was  getting  to  sleep!" 

The  girl  stood  stone  still. 

"I  thought " 

"You  didn't  think!  That's  just  it;  and  you've  spoilt  my 
night.  Pour  me  out  a  dose  of  my  sleeping  stuff." 

Constance  went  to  the  little  medicine-chest  and  took  out  a 
bottle  and  a  measuring  glass.  A  horrible  frost  seemed  to  have 
stiffened  her  into  utter  callousness  towards  this  woman.  She 
was  astonished,  and  yet  not  astonished,  at  the  thoughts  that 
went  sleeting  through  her  mind.  She  found  herself  thinking 
as  she  measured  out  the  draught  that  she  would  not  care  if 
her  mother  never  woke  again. 

Her  hand  trembled,  and  something  caught  in  her  throat. 

"I'm  sorry.  Here  it  is." 

"Don't  touch  the  piano  again  till  I  tell  you." 

"Yes." 

"And  tell  Mary  to  take  off  those  beastly  squeaky  shoes  of 
hers  when  she  comes  up  to  bed." 

Constance  left  her,  shutting  the  door  gently,  and  as  she 
descended  the  stairs  she  had  a  feeling  of  going  down,  like  one 
condemned  to  some  cell,  under  the  surface  of  life.  A  voice 
cried  out  in  her:  "It  is  going  on  like  this  for  ever,  it  is  going 
on  like  this  for  ever!  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't!" 


84  THE  WHITE  GATE 

She  eluded  Mary  who  had  waited  tentatively  for  the  chance 
of  a  few  comforting  words,  and  going  out  on  to  the  veranda 
she  sat  down  in  a  basket-chair.  The  night  was  so  perfect  that 
it  was  a  mockery  of  her  limitations,  and  the  scent  of  the 
night  stock  touched  the  edge  of  pain.  This  vastness,  this  mys- 
tery, what  did  they  offer  her  but  contrasts?  Where  were  the 
happy,  adventurous  days  she  yearned  for?  Somewhere  afar 
off  people  would  be  dancing,  making  love,  listening  to  music, 
watching  life  from  the  chairs  outside  Continental  cafes,  laugh- 
ing, talking,  being  human.  Those  Paris  boulevards  she  had 
read  of!  To-night  in  her  hatred  of  the  immediate  present  she 
felt  she  could  rush  into  that  boulevard  life,  do  wild  things, 
dance  and  sing  in  some  cabaret,  drink  absinthe  till  she  forgot. 
She  had  a  hunger  for  sensation,  even  for  some  stab  of  ex- 
quisite pain  that  should  break  the  numbness  of  this  solitary 
existence. 

She  lay  back  in  the  chair,  her  breath  coming  and  going 
in  great  heaves.  Was  she  going  to  weep,  or  be  whirled  away 
into  some  hysterical  outburst  ?  Every  organ  in  her  body  seemed 
to  be  throbbing  in  revolt,  calling  for  life,  and  threatening 
violence  if  life  were  not  given. 

She  sat  up  suddenly,  stark,  listening. 

There  were  footsteps  going  along  the  laurel  hedge.  Some- 
one whistled  softly,  casually,  as  though  the  whistler  had  no 
particular  purpose  in  passing  the  white  house. 

"I  have  a  song  to  sing  o'." 

The  footsteps  went  up  along  the  hedge,  stopped,  and  came 
back  again. 

"I  have  a  song  to  sing  o'." 

Constance  Brent's  hands  were  gripping  the  arms  of  the 
chair.  She  started  up,  stood  a  moment  irresolute,  and  then 


THE  WHITE  GATE  85 

walked  out  of  the  veranda  and  across  the  lawn  towards  the 
wicket  gate  opening  upon  the  heath.  She  raised  the  latch 
noiselessly,  and  went  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  hedge  into 
the  moonlight. 

The  whistle  came  again: 

"I  have  a  song  to  sing  o'." 

She  answered,  puckering  up  her  mouth: 

"Sing  me  your  song  o'." 

A  figure  appeared  round  the  angle  of  the  hedge,  and  came 
along  slowly,  keeping  under  cover. 

"Hallo!" 

It  was  a  large  and  very  confidential  whisper. 

"Hallo!  I  say,  you  do  look  well  in  white." 

She  let  him  come  close  to  her  and  stare  down  into  her  face 
with  those  round,  shallow  eyes  of  his.  His  largeness  cast  a 
shadow  that  nearly  enveloped  her  slim  whiteness.  A  sheepish 
excitement  possessed  him — the  excitement  of  a  young  man 
who  feels  himself  a  devil  of  a  fellow  and  who  means  to  put 
the  feeling  into  prose. 

"Jolly  out  here  to-night.  I  say — "  He  glanced  towards  the 
house. 

She  knew  that  by  recognising  that  glance  she  would  be  con- 
spiring with  him. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful  out  there  on  the  heath?" 

His  male  mind,  vulgarly  agog  for  anything  suggestive, 
sprang  at  the  supposed  invitation. 

"Let's  go  and  look  at  the  view?  What  about  a  coat  or 
something?" 

"It's  so  warm." 

His  smile  would  have  been  a  leer  on  the  face  of  an  older 
man. 


86  THE  WHITE  GATE 

They  started  off  along  the  path  between  the  furze  bushes, 
and  so  came  into  Briar  Lane.  The  whole  southern  landscape, 
glimmering  white  under  the  moon,  seemed  more  vivid  and 
miraculous  when  seen  from  between  the  high  black  banks  of 
the  lane. 

Constance  Brent  paused,  with  a  drawing  in  of  the  breath. 

"Isn't  that  wonderful?" 

Bertie  Gascoyne  looked  at  her  as  a  butcher  might  look  at 
a  gazelle.  He  was  an  obtuse  youngster,  with  all  the  selfish 
complacency  of  youthful  obtuseness,  the  ordinary  coarse- 
grained young  cad  found  everywhere,  at  the  Universities, 
and  in  the  workshop,  whose  thoughts  run  perpetually  to  peer 
under  the  hem  of  a  woman's  skirt.  He  had  a  sort  of  vague 
notions  of  honour,  but  these  notions  applied  only  to  the  young 
women,  the  sisters  of  his  compeers,  whom  he  knew  that  it 
was  dangerous  to  meddle  with.  The  average  young  man's 
honour  is  only  a  class  affair.  It  does  not  extend  to  the  people 
whom  he  considers  to  be  his  inferiors. 

"Look  at  the  moonlight  on  the  hills!" 

"Fine,  isn't  it?" 

She  did  not  understand  the  thing  at  her  elbow,  and  certainly 
young  Gascoyne  did  not  understand  her.  "Tosh" — that  was 
the  word  he  applied  to  states  of  feeling  that  he  could  not 
comprehend.  And  the  soul  of  a  sensitive  girl  was  as  un- 
existent  for  him  as  the  artists'  world  is  unexistent  for  the 
stevedore  or  the  butcher.  He  did  not  see  the  spirit  of  beauty, 
and  mystery,  and  pathos  beside  him,  and  was  ready  to  walk 
blindly  through  it  like  a  gamekeeper  through  a  ghost. 

The  night  was  marvellous,  and  something  had  come  to 
Constance  Brent  and  offered  her  human  comradeship.  It 
must  please  him  to  be  with  her.  She  guessed  that  much,  and 


THE  WHITE  GATE  87 

a  kind  of  innocent  exultation  stirred  in  her,  a  delight  in  the 
thought  that  she  could  create  a  necessity  in  the  life  of 
another.  Some  of  her  discontent  floated  away  into  the  moon- 
light. She  felt  gay,  happily  reckless,  eager  to  accept  the  spirit 
of  comradeship,  and  to  give  it.  Oh — he  was  alive;  he  must 
have  felt  some  of  the  things  that  she  had  felt;  he  was  at 
Oxford;  he  was  young,  and  he  would  understand. 

"I  say,  don't  you  find  it  a  bit  lonely  up  here?" 

He  was  plotting  to  come  closer. 

"Lonely?  It  is  lonely." 

The  crude  male  instinct  took  the  inference  to  itself.  They 
were  talking  at  cross-purposes,  the  girl's  eyes  turned  towards 
spiritual  things,  the  man's  fixed  on  mere  matter.  She  began 
to  talk  to  him,  offering  tentative,  shy  confidences,  while  the 
rough  youth  grabbed  them  complacently,  always  suspecting  a 
double  meaning,  and  accusing  her  to  himself  of  "coming  on." 

"Like  bein'  out  here?" 

"It  is  new  to  have  someone  to  talk  to." 

"Me?  Oh,  thanks.  Did  you  find  it  much  of  a  bother  to 
get  out?" 

"Get  out?" 

"Yes,  out  of  the  coop." 

Her  white  face,  a  little  puzzled  and  appealing,  with  its  dark 
eyes  and  hair,  might  have  touched  an  older  man.  It  looked 
so  innocently  for  life,  desiring  to  understand  and  to  be  under- 
stood. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  coop?" 

He  thought,  "You  do  play  up  to  me,  don't  you?" 

"Why,  the  house,"  he  said  aloud. 

"Oh!" 


88  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Took  me  a  deuce  of  a  lot  of  thinkin'  about.  I'm  supposed 
to  be  out  after  moths  with  Emma  Cottle." 

"Emma  Cotde!  Is  she " 

Bertie  Gascoyne  blurted  a  laugh. 

"Emma  Cottle!  My  hat!  Old  Emmery — don't  you  see?  He's 
fly,  too;  knows  the  game." 

"Oh!" 

"The  old  'uns  are  always  so  deuced  inquisitive." 

She  had  a  sudden  bright  idea  that  Bertie  Gascoyne  might 
be  tyrannised  over  by  his  mother  and  that  he  had  come  to  her 
for  sympathy.  "They  never  seem  to  realise  that  we  are  young, 
do  they?" 

"Who?" 

"The  older  people." 

"Suppose  not.  Is  your  old  lady  pretty  stiff  on  you?" 

His  vulgar  directness  disconcerted  her. 

"I  don't  know.  Do  you  mean " 

"Keeps  you  on  a  chain.  And  I've  come  to  let  you  off,  eh?" 

He  swayed  nearer,  brushed  up  against  her,  and  his  hand 
touched  hers.  A  queer,  fastidious  thrill  went  through  her.  She 
did  not  like  him  to  come  so  close,  but  perhaps  he  meant  it 
kindly. 

She  paused  and  turned  about. 

"I  think  we  have  come  far  enough." 

Constance  did  not  guess  how  near  she  was  to  being  caught, 
and  bespoiled  by  the  barbarian's  rough  hands.  But  Bertie  Gas- 
coyne had  a  moment's  cowardice,  a  raw  dread  of  the  crisis 
that  he  would  provoke. 

"All  right." 

He  became  awkwardly  and   half  sulkily  reticent.  They 


THE  WHITE  GATE  89 

reached  the  laurel  hedge  again;  young  Gascoyne  half  ready 
to  clutch  at  the  white  figure,  yet  half  afraid  to  play  the  devil. 

"I  think  I  must  go  in  now." 

"Must  you?" 

"Yes." 

He  loomed  above  her,  sulkily  and  sensually  inept. 

"All  right.  Suppose  I  may  come  up  again?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  quite  frankly. 

"Do  you  want  to?" 

"  'Course  I  do.  I'll  just  whistle." 

She  moved  towards  the  gate  where  a  blurred  and  unseen 
figure  was  standing  under  the  shade  of  the  laurels.  The  figure 
hurried  away  across  the  grass,  and  disappeared  under  the 
veranda. 

Five  minutes  later  Constance  Brent  and  Mary  met  in  the 
hall. 

"You  can  shut  the  windows,  Mary,  and  we'll  go  to  bed. 
I've  been  out  on  the  heath.  It's  beautiful  by  moonlight." 

"Yes,  Miss  Connie." 

The  woman  kept  her  own  counsel,  but  she  was  troubled 
within  herself. 

"It's  only  natural,"  she  thought;  "but  then — I  don't  know. 
She's  so  lonely,  poor  dear!  And  men— some  of  them  young 
men  are  mean  beasts.  Anyhow,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  spying." 


Chapter  Eight 


O  KELT  ON  felt  in  a  marching  mood,  and  since  he  had  done 
good  work  during  the  day,  he  allowed  the  soft  summer  night 
and  his  own  inclination  to  carry  him  off  into  the  fir  woods. 
He  remembered  that  there  would  be  a  moon,  and  being  out 
for  idleness,  he  lay  down  for  a  while  on  the  dry  needles,  and 
stared  at  the  black  canopy  where  the  straight  trunks  disap- 
peared into  the  upper  gloom,  and  star  dust  glimmered 
through.  It  was  very  still  here  in  the  thick  of  the  woods. 
The  warm  air  had  a  resinous  fragrance,  the  perfume  of  the 
invisible  incense  burnt  in  this  most  solemn  of  temples. 

Lonely?  Well — he  supposed  he  was  lonely  at  times,  and 
not  the  master  of  a  grinning  and  inhuman  cheerfulness  that 
accepted  all  things  and  everything  with  officious  resignation. 
He  was  very  much  a  man  despite  his  philosophy  of  healing, 
and  Stephen  Phillips's  "Paolo  and  Francesca"  had  stood 
propped  against  the  sugar  basin  on  his  tea  table. 

The  kindness  of  self-restraint.  What  a  supremely  wise  and 
lovable  person  was  Mrs.  Catharine  Strange!  Just  that — self- 
restraint,  for  one's  own  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  others.  To 

90 


THE  WHITE  GATE  91 

be  sure,  he  felt  like  a  man,  was  tempted  like  a  man  who  had 
got  far  into  the  thirties  and  remained  unmarried.  For  in- 
stance, there  was  Nance  Willard,  the  gamekeeper's  daughter, 
that  plump,  well-developed,  dark-eyed  young  woman  with  the 
big  red  mouth.  She  always  seemed  to  be  standing  at  the  white 
gate  when  Skelton  went  by,  her  eyes  challenging  him,  her 
feminine  completeness  cheerfully  provocative. 

"Good  evening,  Nance." 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Skelton.  It's  a  nice  day,  isn't  it?" 

That  was  all  that  passed.  But  the  girl's  eyes  had  marked 
out  the  lean,  tall  man  with  the  keen,  virile  face.  The  feminine 
instinct  in  her  had  whispered  that  here  was  a  woman's  mate, 
a  man  who  had  but  to  lift  a  finger — and  she  would  follow. 

But  what  a  fool's  move  such  a  match  would  be.  The  girl's 
healthy,  good-humoured  ripeness  had  come  within  Skelton's 
horizon,  but  he  was  not  the  man  for  such  a  hazard,  even  when 
honourably  tackled.  Moreover,  he  had  his  own  contempt  for 
young  Gascoyne  and  that  sort  of  adventurer,  the  cads  who 
allowed  raw  Nature  to  play  all  the  wild  tricks  she  pleased. 

Yet  to  have  a  mate,  a  comrade,  a  serene  and  tender  pres- 
ence near  him,  good  God!  he  did  yearn  for  that.  Someone  to 
give  sting  and  passion  and  sympathy  to  his  ambition;  some- 
one whom  he  could  see  and  touch  and  tease  very  dearly; 
someone  for  whom  he  could  spend  himself;  someone  for 
whose  innocent  and  delightful  vanities  he  could  deny  himself 
a  big  thing  here  and  there. 

"Confound  it,  a  man's  not  complete  so  long  as  he's  un- 
mated." 

He  stared  at  the  black  feltwork  of  boughs  above,  and  the 
stars  glimmering  through  seemed  to  be  pricked  out  in  astral 
figures. 


92  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"One  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year.  Look  here,  Dick 
Skelton,  can  you  marry  on  that?" 

"Idiot,"  came  the  retort;  "as  if  I  couldn't  make  my  thou- 
sand a  year — for  the  sake  of  the  one  particular  person!  My 
wife —  Well,  I  should  want  to  see  her  better  dressed  than 
most  other  women.  A  woman  of  taste  can  be  an  artist.  I 
should  want  to  see  her —  Her!  Who?" 

He  sat  up  suddenly,  his  arms  wrapped  round  his  knees. 

"Pale  hands  I  loved  beside  the  Shalimar" 

There  was  a  voice  in  the  fir  woods,  an  elfin  voice  that  made 
the  first  slanting  streaks  of  moonlight  shiver.  He  found  a 
queer,  reminiscent  tenderness  assailing  him.  What  a  haunting 
voice  that  girl  had!  It  yearned,  asked  questions,  stirred  strange 
deeps  of  feeling. 

"Where  are  you  now — where  are  you  now?" 

He  rose  and  walked  on  through  the  woods  in  time  to  see 
the  light  of  the  rising  moon  filling  the  valley  where  Roymer 
lay  in  a  lake  of  silver  mist.  Up  yonder  swelled  the  heath,  with 
a  light  glimmering  here  and  there,  its  dark  outlines  cutting 
the  sky. 

"I  wonder  if  she  is  singing  to-night?" 

His  footsteps  tended  that  way  till  the  white  house  stood  out 
above  him  like  a  great  white  headstone.  He  took  a  by-path 
that  led  to  the  main  road,  and  bore  round  westwards  towards 
Furze  Cottage.  When  quite  near  it  he  heard  someone  whistle, 
and  he  was  human  enough  to  stop  and  listen. 

He  walked  on. 

"I'll  go  round  by  the  back  and  cut  into  Briar  Lane." 

He  did  so,  and  cut  into  a  large  figure  in  a  grey  Norfolk 


THE  WHITE  GATE  93 

and  white  trousers  that  was  lounging  up  and  down  with  a 
certain  air  of  expectation. 

The  figure  gaped,  and  nodded  with  disconcerted  abrupt- 
ness. 

"Hallo!" 

"Hallo!" 

Both  would  have  added,  "What  the  devil  are  you  doing 
here?" 

Skelton  went  past  young  Gascoyne  with  a  brightening  of 
the  eyes,  and  a  queer  and  unforetold  gust  of  anger  rushing 
through  his  brain. 

Briar  Lane  ran  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  Skelton  walked 
on.  Turn  his  head  to  look?  No,  he  was  damned  if  he  would! 
But  he  did  look,  and  so  appositely  that  he  just  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  white  figure  gliding  into  the  dark  trough  of  the 
lane.  So  Constance  Brent  came  out  by  moonlight  to  meet 
that  cub! 

Skelton  marched  on,  trying  to  sort  out  the  situation. 

"I  am  glad  I  didn't  meet  her — just  there — or  the  two  of  them 
together." 

He  was  carried  away  suddenly  by  the  sincerity  of  his  own 
anger,  and  he  was  not  pleasant  to  behold  when  he  was  angry. 
It  had  been  said  of  him  once  by  a  youth  who  had  had  to 
flatten  himself  into  surrender:  "I  tell  you,  Skelton  can  be  a 
devil." 

"Glad!  Am  I  glad?  I  have  a  good  mind  to  go  back,  kick 
that  young  beast,  and  send  the  girl  to  bed.  But,  is  it  your 
business,  my  friend?  Don't  be  mean-minded." 

He  walked  on,  telling  himself  quite  calmly  that  he  was  not 
prejudiced  against  young  Gascoyne.  He  happened  to  know 
what  sort  of  a  cad  the  youngster  was.  And  he  was  ready  to 


94  THE  WHITE  GATE 

swear  that  Constance  Brent  knew  nothing  about  men,  and 
that  this  particular  man  had  not  been  caught  up  by  any 
ideal  passion. 

The  magic  was  out  of  the  night  so  far  as  Skelton  was  con- 
cerned. Any  attempt  to  reach  magnanimous  tolerance  was 
spoilt  by  his  own  intimate  knowledge  of  life  and  by  his  opin- 
ion of  Herbert  Gascoyne.  A  man  who  has  developed  no  vein 
of  cynicism  is  not  to  be  trusted,  nor  is  there  much  doubt  that 
the  cynical  common  sense  of  the  community  keeps  the  faddists 
and  the  idealists  from  doing  any  great  harm.  This  cynical 
common  sense  may  be  called  the  steel  framing  of  a  man's 
mind.  All  manner  of  fine  things  may  be  stored  there,  but  this 
framing  of  steel  serves  to  keep  them  from  getting  bundled 
into  confused  sentimentalism. 

"Youth  goes  towards  youth." 

He  remembered  that  Stephen  Phillips  had  said  that. 

"But  what  a  youth,  and  what  a  child!" 

He  wondered  whether  Catharine  Strange  had  called  there 
yet.  Mrs.  Strange  could  be  compassionately  and  suggestively 
cynical,  a  great  gift.  She  was  human,  not  one  of  those  soulful 
persons  whom  Skelton  mistrusted  and  abhorred. 

"If  a  man  talks  the  ideal  purity  stuff  to  me,"  he  had  once 
said,  "I  tell  my  friends  not  to  trust  that  man  near  their 
womenfolk." 

He  could  guess  how  badly  one  of  the  soulful  women  would 
blunder  in  dealing  with  such  a  girl  as  Constance  Brent.  They 
were  neurotic  egoists,  most  of  them,  and  Skelton  wondered 
what  one  of  these  soulful  women  would  make  of  Bertie  Gas- 
coyne. Since  they  were  always  looking  upward,  talking  a 
sort  of  strenuous  star-dust  jargon,  they  forgot  that  the  world 
was  full  of  young  animals.  They  were  quite  inhumanly  super- 


THE  WHITE  GATE  95 

human,  or  wanted  to  be.  Thunder! — give  him  a  woman  who 
was  something  of  a  cynic,  in  the  sense  that  she  realised  that 
there  was  mud  everywhere,  and  that  one  cannot  escape  it  by 
talking  mystical  nonsense  and  flapping  one's  arms  at  the  stars. 

He  was  astonished  at  the  intense  feeling  the  incident  had 
roused  in  him.  It  was  no  impersonal  affair,  then.  In  fact,  he 
might  charge  himself  with  jealousy. 

"Jealous  of  what?  Herbert  Gascoyne!"  He  laughed,  but  his 
laughter  had  a  passionate  edge. 

That  sensitive,  fragile  figure  drifting  through  the  twilight 
of  its  loneliness,  and  reaching  out  pathetically  to  touch  any 
shape  that  seemed  human!  How  well  he  could  picture  what 
had  been  happening  up  yonder.  And  this  cub  who  had  noth- 
ing but  his  youth  to  recommend  him! 

Skelton  felt  savagely  troubled.  How  could  one  cut  in  on 
such  a  problem  and  solve  it?  Had  he  any  right  to  meddle, 
and,  after  all,  was  there  any  serious  cause  for  meddling? 

As  to  his  right,  the  full  consciousness  of  it  came  to  him  as 
he  was  working  at  his  lathe  an  hour  later,  making  his  hands 
help  his  thoughts. 

"By  George!  I  have  a  man's  right.  What  did  Catharine 
Strange  say?  'Is  it  always — a  woman's  affair?'  Let  me  think — 
let  me  think." 


6 

\ 

( 


Chapter  Nine 


ClONSTANCE  had  carried  a  deck-chair  out  under  the 
shade  of  the  lime  tree  that  grew  at  the  far  end  of  the  lawn, 
and  Jim  Crow  was  pecking  at  her  shoe-laces,  putting  his  head 
on  one  side,  and  looking  up  at  her  with  a  blue  eye  that  chal- 
lenged conversation.  But  Constance  was  not  in  a  mood  to 
talk  to  the  bird,  having  drifted  into  a  sleepy  backwater  of 
meditation. 

The  lime  tree  could  be  seen  from  the  kitchen  window,  and 
Mary's  white-capped  head  moving  to  and  fro  there  often 
turned  its  eyes  towards  the  girl  sitting  in  the  shade.  The 
woman's  face  had  a  troubled,  puzzled  look.  An  anxious 
motherliness  seemed  to  be  watching  a  child  on  the  edge  of 
experiences  that  may  be  disastrous  and  tragical.  That  is  why 
youth  is  so  intensely  and  pathetically  interesting  to  people  of 
understanding.  The  hazards,  the  disillusionments,  the  exalta- 
tions, the  litde  tristful  tragedies  repeat  themselves.  Youth 
comes  toward  the  fire  with  shining  eyes  and  hands  out- 
stretched, and  we  elders  hold  our  breath,  and  watch,  wonder- 
ing whether  those  eager,  innocent  hands  will  be  scorched  and 
made  to  suffer  pain. 

96 


THE  WHITE  GATE  97 

Mary's  reflections  were  full  of  unrest. 

"She's  been  out  three  evenings,  and  she  hasn't  said  a  word 
to  me.  And,  somehow,  I  can't —  It  isn't  fair  on  the  child, 
this  walking  out  into  the  dark." 

Mary  was  polishing  silver,  and  she  rubbed  hard  and 
viciously. 

"What  has  she  ever  done  for  the  child?  She  doesn't  care 
for  anything  but  that  little  brute  Gussie.  One  couldn't  speak 
to  her  about  it.  Tantrums.  Oh,  we  are  selfish  beasts!" 

Her  eyes  reverted  to  the  figure  under  the  lime  tree,  and 
compassion  shone  in  them. 

"Miss  Connie,  my  little  girl,  if  you  could  just  put  your  head 
on  my  shoulder — and  talk.  Oh,  I'm  no  fool,  and  I  should  like 
to  tell  you  just  what —  But  there!  she  thinks  no  more  harm 
than  a  flower  might  with  a  bee  buzzing  round." 

Constance  lay  with  eyes  half  closed,  looking  up  into  the 
green  heart  of  the  tree.  It  was  dappled  with  gold,  and  touched 
here  and  there  with  burrs  of  silver.  She  was  in  one  of  those 
moods  when  the  imaginative  "I"  seems  to  leave  the  body  and 
stand  aloof,  looking  down  at  its  material  self.  In  spite  of  the 
sentimentalists  and  the  poets,  it  is  doubtful  whether  any  young 
girl  is  ever  "fancy  free,"  and  Constance  Brent  had  had  her 
dreams.  But  then  they  had  been  tender,  ethereal,  mysterious 
dreams,  turning  all  the  dross  to  beauty,  recreating  the  whole 
world. 

And  the  reality  appeared  to  be  so  different.  Even  in  herself 
she  had  discovered  a  strange  creature,  a  thing  of  unexpected 
whims  and  impulses.  Why  had  this  strange  self  promised  to 
meet  Herbert  Gascoyne  again  when  she  had  returned  from 
the  last  adventure  with  a  feeling  of  bewilderment  and  vague 
distrust?  And  why  had  she  let  him  kiss  her  at  the  gate?  Had 
it  been  for  the  sake  of  the  sensation,  or  because  she  was 


98  THE  WHITE  GATE 

grateful  to  him  for  coming,  or  because  there  was  something 
compelling  about  this  youth?  She  had  not  thrilled  to  that 
kiss.  It  had  been  a  blundering  and  rather  clumsy  incident, 
and  she  was  inclined  to  shudder  when  she  remembered  the 
hot  breath  and  the  eyes  glaring  close  to  hers  with  a  suggestion 
of  greed.  Why  had  he  done  it,  and  why  had  she  suffered  him 
to  do  it? 

She  had  expected  everything  to  be  so  different,  but  they 
had  been  at  cross-purposes  from  the  very  first.  Was  it  that 
she  was  too  sensitive,  or  that  she  knew  nothing  of  men? 
She  had  wanted  to  talk  to  this  new  comrade,  to  pour  out  her 
heart,  to  be  understood,  but  this  big  fellow  had  stared  at  her 
almost  stupidly,  and  answered  with  grunts  of  crude  flattery. 
He  seemed  to  have  had  no  echo  for  her.  Why?  Perhaps  shy- 
ness, perhaps  because  he  was  one  of  those  dumb  souls  who 
feel  deeply,  and  lack  the  power  of  expression. 

She  was  going  to  meet  him  again  that  evening  after  her 
mother  had  gone  to  bed,  for  Dora  Brent's  apathy  had  over- 
looked any  such  affair,  since  it  never  even  occurred  to  her  to 
wonder  how  Constance  amused  herself  when  she — Dora  Brent 
— went  to  bed  at  the  bored  hour  of  nine  o'clock.  The  mother 
started  out  for  her  afternoon  drive,  taking  the  lad  and  Gus- 
sie  for  company,  Constance  pleading  a  headache  and  a 
dislike  of  the  glare.  She  was  at  the  piano  soon  after  Dora 
Brent  had  started,  and  Mary,  sewing  in  the  kitchen,  opened 
the  kitchen  door  to  listen.  Constance's  voice  sounded  strained 
that  afternoon.  The  feeling  seemed  forced,  suggesting  wings 
beating  wilfully  upwards  against  the  wind. 

When  she  went  to  her  room  to  change  for  dinner  she  put 
on  her  white  blouse  and  skirt.  She  remembered  that  he  had 
said  that  she  looked  well  in  white,  yet  the  memory  brought 


THE  WHITE  GATE  99 

no  mysterious  thrill.  Why  was  she  going  out  to  meet  him? 
Was  it  because  of  a  desperate  desire  to  escape  from  the  old 
loneliness,  because  the  fact  of  his  stealing  up  over  the  heath 
at  night  was  like  a  cup  of  wine  to  the  dry  lips  of  her  femi- 
nine vanity?  Comradeship,  sympathy,  even  something  deeper 
still,  how  she  yearned  for  them.  It  was  a  sort  of  forlorn  hope. 
She  clung  to  it,  trying  to  hang  some  of  her  ideals  about  young 
Gascoyne's  neck. 

It  was  a  pathetic  affair — this  dressing.  She  let  her  hair  down, 
and,  sitting  before  her  mirror,  took  great  trouble  to  do  it 
prettily.  Her  store  of  finery  was  soon  considered.  She  could 
count  her  ribbons  and  fal-lals  on  the  fingers  of  her  hands; 
the  blue  ribbon,  which  was  new;  the  black  velvet  band  she 
wore  sometimes  round  her  throat;  the  green  leather  belt  with 
the  silver  filigree  buckle;  the  two  bangles  her  mother  had 
given  her;  the  green  and  blue  enamel  brooch  Mary  had 
bought  for  her  last  birthday.  She  chose  her  newest  pair  of 
shoes,  they  were  not  chafed  and  worn  about  the  toes.  It  was 
a  sensitive,  feminine  detail,  for  who  would  see  whether  her 
shoes  were  scratched  and  worn  or  not?  She  put  on  her  one 
pet  pair  of  light  stockings,  and  fastened  the  black  velvet  band 
round  her  throat.  She  had  picked  a  red  rose  in  the  garden, 
and  after  putting  it  in  her  belt  she  stood  looking  at  herself 
questioningly  in  her  mirror. 

What  did  the  man  see  in  her — what  did  he  desire?  What 
did  she  see  in  herself?  A  slim,  fragile  figure  with  a  pale  face, 
large  dark  eyes,  and  a  mass  of  still  darker  hair.  A  strange 
thought  struck  across  her  mind;  how  easily  she  could  be 
crushed,  what  a  little  thing  she  seemed.  But  then,  a  man  liked 
something  he  could  be  very  gentle  with,  something  he  could 
protect.  She  did  not  desire  to  be  a  fine,  independent  young 


ioo  THE  WHITE  GATE 

woman  very  well  able  to  assert  her  own  physical  fitness.  It 
was  very  pleasant  to  think  of  inspiring  chivalry  and  tender- 
ness in  a  man.  Perhaps  he  felt  that,  but  had  not  been  able  to 
make  her  feel  all  that  he  had  felt. 

At  dinner  Dora  Brent  noticed  nothing  of  all  this.  She  just 
ate,  and  fed  Gussie  who  sat  on  a  chair  beside  her,  and  talked 
of  whether  she  should  go  into  Reading  next  week,  why  Dut- 
ton's  boy  had  not  left  the  daily  paper  till  after  three  o'clock. 
Constance  felt  that  she  was  listening  to  a  distant  muffled 
voice  that  did  not  belong  to  her  own  world.  Then  came  that 
hour  after  dinner  when  she  had  to  sit  under  the  standard 
lamp  in  the  drawing-room  and  read  the  account  of  the  trial 
of  a  particularly  sordid  little  person  in  a  particularly  sordid 
murder.  Dora  Brent  had  the  mind  of  a  servant  in  these  mat- 
ters, and  since  the  trial  had  been  going  on  for  days,  Constance 
had  had  to  wade  through  and  through  the  vulgar  slime  of 
cheap  journalism.  Nothing  else  seemed  to  interest  her  mother. 
She  would  break  out  suddenly  with  some  reasonless  remark, 
such  as  "It  was  funny  about  that  night-dress."  "I  wonder 
whether  he  killed  her  before  or  after  the  milkman  called?" 
The  whole  thing  smelt  of  the  gutter,  of  a  greasy,  scandalous, 
and  utterly  ugly  life  in  a  London  suburb. 

And  to-night,  there  was  a  "thrilling  cross-examination"  to 
be  read.  Constance's  impatient  disgust  rose  in  her  throat.  She 
tried  to  rattle  through  the  details,  wondering  whether  her 
mother  would  lose  her  interest  in  the  unsavoury  mess  before 
the  clock  struck  nine.  The  "popular  murder  case"  sprawled 
over  a  whole  page,  and  the  greasy  little  brute  who  had  com- 
mitted the  murder  might  have  been  "a  man  of  destiny." 

"I  wonder  how  you  can  listen  to  all  this!" 

"Don't  be  squeamish.  It's  a  bit  of  life!" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  101 

"Can  life  be  like  this?  Oh,  I  feel— I  feel  that  I  want  to  wash 
my  mouth  with  clean  water." 

"Twaddle!  About  that  bloodstain  on  the  stair  rail?  Just 
read  that  again." 

It  was  over  at  last,  and  Dora  Brent  had  gone,  carrying 
Gussie  under  her  arm.  Constance  went  and  stood  by  the  open 
window,  drawing  in  the  clean  night  air  with  the  scent  of  the 
night  stock.  How  incredible  it  seemed  that  people  should  be 
interested  in  such  dull  and  abominable  nastiness.  Why  was  it 
not  buried  quietly,  and  contemptuously,  and  put  away  out  of 
sight  ? 

Looking  out  between  the  pillars  of  the  veranda  she  realised 
suddenly  that  there  would  be  no  moon  to-night,  and  that  it 
was  very  dark,  in  spite  of  a  clear  sky,  and  the  stars.  Perhaps 
the  case  in  the  paper  had  made  her  morbid,  but  the  darkness 
out  yonder  was  what  the  country  folk  called  "unked."  To  go 
out  there  alone  and  meet  him  seemed  such  an  intimate  com- 
mittal of  her  pride.  But  he,  too,  would  realise  that.  The  con- 
secrating of  her  trust  in  him  would  make  him  more  chiv- 
alrous. 

All  movement  had  ceased  in  the  room  above,  and  Con- 
stance went  out  into  the  veranda  and  across  the  lawn  towards 
the  wicket  gate  in  the  laurel  hedge.  It  had  been  agreed  be- 
tween them  that  Bertie  Gascoyne  should  not  whistle.  He  would 
come  and  wait  at  the  gate  till  she  could  escape  and  join  him 
there. 

Constance  had  a  quiver  of  excitement  over  the  heart  and 
a  sense  of  adventure  as  she  opened  the  gate  and  went  out. 
There  was  a  movement  along  the  laurels,  a  brushing  of  feet 
over  the  grass. 

"Hallo,  Connie!" 


102  THE  WHITE  GATE 

His  large  shape  came  and  loomed  over  her.  A  hand  touched 
hers,  and  seized  it.  He  spoke  in  a  sort  of  gloating  whisper. 

"You've  come  all  right.  I  knew  you  would." 

"Yes." 

He  did  not  realise  how  soft  a  girl's  hand  can  be.  Moreover, 
she  was  wearing  a  little  old  silver  ring  that  she  had  saved  up 
for  and  bought  when  she  was  sixteen. 

"Oh,  not  so  hard.  It  hurts." 

"Hurts?" 

"Yes;  let  go." 

"You  sly  little  flapper." 

"Let  me  go." 

His  face  came  near  to  hers. 

"All  right,  darling.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt,  if  it  did.  Let's  go 
where  we  can  talk." 

She  stood  hesitating,  vaguely  afraid.  He  was  different  again 
to-night.  There  was  a  rough  boldness  that  troubled  her.  When 
he  had  gripped  her  hand  so  hard,  she  had  felt  him  trembling, 
trembling  like  one  in  a  fever. 

"Perhaps  I'll  come  a  little  way.  It's  so  dark  tonight." 

He  gave  a  queer,  half-smothered  laugh. 

"You  don't  mind  that,  do  you?" 

"No.  Only  I  want  you " 

"That's  it.  You're  up  to  snuff— all  right." 

Five  minutes  later  Mary  came  down  to  the  gate  in  the  laurel 
hedge.  She  had  a  shawl  wrapped  round  her,  and  she  had  come 
to  wait.  The  heath  seemed  one  great  silence,  a  black  smudge 
below  the  lighter  gloom  of  the  summer  sky.  Now  and  again 
she  fancied  that  she  could  hear  the  murmur  of  voices,  but  her 
straining  ears  picked  up  all  manner  of  imaginary  sounds  and 
she  anxiously  wondered  over  them. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  103 

Mary  had  waited  there  half  an  hour  before  that  queer 
cry  came  out  of  the  darkness.  It  was  neither  loud  nor  shrill, 
yet  it  was  like  the  cry  of  someone  surprised  and  sprung  upon 
in  the  darkness.  Mary  had  the  gate  open,  and  was  out  upon 
the  rough  grass  and  heather,  her  eyes  shining  with  a  hard, 
fierce  light.  She  stood  listening,  straining  eyes  and  ears,  half 
afraid  to  call  lest  Dora  Brent  should  hear. 

It  was  then  that  she  saw  something  white  coming  through 
the  furze  bushes.  It  was  a  figure  that  ran,  and  panted  for 
breath. 

"Miss  Connie!" 

The  girl  ran  straight  at  her,  as  a  bird  frightened  by  a  hawk 
dashes  for  a  bush. 

"Mary!" 

She  clung  to  the  woman  with  passionate  violence,  her  breath 
coming  in  quick  gasps. 

"Mary!" 

"There — there,  it's  all  right,  Miss  Connie." 

She  had  a  horrible  dread  in  her,  for  the  girl  clung  to  her 
like  one  in  despair.  Some  of  her  hair  had  slipped  down  and 
hung  about  her  throat  and  shoulders. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  what's  happened?" 

"I  didn't  know — I  didn't  know " 

Her  voice  had  a  shocked,  moaning  note. 

"Don't  take  on  so.  Tell  me." 

"I  didn't  know— I  didn't  know " 

"Dear  soul!" 

"I  didn't  know  men  were  like  that." 

She  grew  limp  of  a  sudden,  and  hung  in  the  servant's  arms. 
She  had  fainted. 

Mary  carried  her  into  the  house  and  laid  her  upon  the  sofa. 


104  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Through  the  thick  of  her  blaze  of  pity  blew  gusts  of  anger 
and  scorn. 

"The  young  brute!  I  could  kill  him." 

She  did  what  her  woman's  wit  devised,  and  was  infinitely 
comforted.  A  towel  soaked  in  cold  water  soon  brought  Con- 
stance back  to  consciousness.  She  held  up  her  hands  and 
whimpered. 

"Mary!" 

It  was  like  the  cry  of  a  hurt  child. 

"Miss  Connie — oh,  dear  heart!" 

"Don't  leave  me.  I'm  frightened  still — so  frightened." 

She  shook  as  with  a  fever. 

"There,  there;  just  tell  me  everything,  soft  like  so  as  to  wake 
nobody.  Don't  mind  old  Mary;  she  just  loves  you;  think 
that." 

The  tale  was  soon  told,  and  Mary  realised  that  the  soul  had 
been  more  sinned  against  than  the  body. 

"Now,  I'll  just  put  you  to  bed." 

"I  can't  stay  alone.  I  can't " 

"Well,  just  come  to  my  bed  with  me.  I'll  be  mother  to- 
night." 

And  the  shivering,  shocked  body  fell  asleep  in  the  woman's 
arms. 


CATHARINE  STRANGE  drove  up  in  her  pony  cart 
to  Furze  Cottage  to  call  on  Dora  Brent.  She  had  planned — 
so  to  speak — for  a  crossing  of  pony  carts,  knowing  that  Dora 
Brent  made  a  habit  of  going  out  between  half-past  two  and 
four,  and  that  there  might  be  some  chance  of  her  catching 
Constance  alone. 

As  she  stood  waiting  at  the  front  door  her  eyes  took  in  as 
much  of  the  garden  as  could  be  seen,  and  drew  their  own 
conclusions.  Catharine  Strange  liked  to  try  and  place  people 
by  their  gardens.  There  were  the  fussily  correct,  the  preten- 
tious, the  flagrantly  untidy,  the  retired  from  trade,  and  the 
cabbage  mania  gardens.  Only  here  and  there  did  she  come 
across  the  pure  artist,  the  man  who  could  bend  lovingly  and 
understandingly  over  some  rare  flower.  The  ordinary  person 
wanted  impressive  splashes  of  colour,  something  in  the  way 
of  a  good  "poster,"  and  Catharine  Strange,  with  her  exquisite 
independence,  was  always  amused  by  the  latest  gardening  fad. 
At  the  moment  it  happened  to  be  "rock  gardens,"  and  she  was 
always  being  conducted  to  see  the  usual  accumulations  of 

105 


io6  THE  WHITE  GATE 

stone  set  out  with  studied  irregularity,  and  traversed  by  absurd 
little  winding  paths.  She  guessed  that  there  would  not  be  any 
rock  garden  at  Furze  Cottage.  She  knew,  too,  that  the  real 
flower  lover  is  a  Bohemian  spirit,  and  that  he  is  not  cursed  by  a 
fussy  tidiness.  Here,  at  Furze  Cottage,  the  lawn-mower,  the 
roller,  and  the  weed-killer  can  were  the  gods  that  ruled,  and 
the  red-headed  pelargonium  possessed  the  earth. 

Mary  answered  the  bell. 

"Is  Mrs.  Brent  at  home?" 

"No,  ma'am;  she's  out  driving." 

"And  Miss  Brent?" 

Catharine  Strange  saw  the  doubt  in  the  woman's  eyes. 

"Miss  Constance  is  in,  ma'am,  but  she's  been  lying  down 
with  a  bit  of  a  headache." 

"I'm  so  sorry.  I  thought  I  might  find  her  at  home." 

Mary  felt  the  touch  of  sincerity. 

"I'll  just  go  and  see.  What  name,  please?" 

"Mrs.  Strange.  Tell  her  not  to  come  down  unless  she  feels 
well  enough.  I  can  wait  and  see." 

"Won't  you  come  in,  ma'am?  I'll  not  be  a  minute." 

Catharine  Strange  sat  down  on  an  "occasional"  chair  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  looked  about  her.  She  was  both  very 
observant  and  very  sensitive,  and  the  room  seemed  over- 
crowded and  yet  lonely.  How  characteristic  it  all  was,  just 
like  the  gardens  of  those  amateur  gardeners  who  must  have 
a  certain  plant  because  their  neighbours  possess  it,  the  brass 
standard  lamp  with  its  pink  lace  shade,  the  wall-paper  pat- 
terned with  rose-buds  in  a  floating  lattice  of  light  blue  ribbons, 
the  carpet  an  art  green  square.  The  chairs  were  grotesque 
things,  self-conscious  complexities  that  realised  that  they  were 
some  sort  of  "new  art."  There  was  even  a  cosy  corner  in  wood 


THE  WHITE  GATE  107 

enamelled  white,  and  seated  with  rose-coloured  cushions.  A 
pseudo-antique  glass-fronted  mahogany  corner  cupboard  held 
a  few  lustre  cups,  and  a  lustre  teapot,  and  two  Toby  jugs.  The 
two  reposeful  and  unaffected  pieces  of  furniture  were  the 
Chesterfield  sofa  covered  with  chintz  and  the  piano  against 
the  opposite  wall.  There  were  three  or  four  pictures  represent- 
ing soncy  and  sentimental  young  mothers  in  the  thick  of 
groups  of  well-fed  children,  while  a  sentimental  and  dark 
husband  in  late  Georgian  dress  looked  on  with  an  air  of 
romantic  gentility. 

Catharine  Strange  had  risen  to  look  at  the  books  on  the 
white  enamelled  shelves  when  Mary  returned. 

"Miss  Connie  says  she  will  be  down  in  ten  minutes,  ma'am." 

"Thank  you.  Tell  her  not  to  hurry." 

She  resumed  her  examination  of  the  books,  picking  out  one 
here  and  there  like  an  expert.  What  stuff!  Mock  romance  and 
mock  realism,  sentimental  rubbish  and  cheap  nastiness.  She 
smiled  to  herself  with  intelligent  compassion. 

Then  Constance  Brent  came  into  the  room,  and  Catharine 
Strange  thought  no  more  about  books. 

"Mrs.  Strange?" 

"Yes.  I  hope  your  head  is  better.  It  is  really  good  of  you  to 
come  down." 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  better,  thank  you.  This  room  is  cool,  too. 
Isn't  it  a  lovely  day?" 

Mrs.  Strange's  brown  eyes  gave  one  gleam,  and  then  seemed 
to  retreat  behind  their  glasses,  becoming  soft,  and  shrouded, 
and  unembarrassing.  The  girl  looked  all  nerves,  white  and 
strained,  and  ready  to  talk  any  nonsense  for  the  sake  of  avoid- 
ing silence.  Her  hands  fidgeted  together  in  her  lap,  and  she 


io8  THE  WHITE  GATE 

stared  at  her  visitor  with  the  large  and  painfully  attentive 
eyes  of  one  in  a  fever  of  shyness. 

Catharine  Strange  felt  a  protecting  pity,  touched  with  sur- 
prise. 

"My  dear,"  she  thought,  "what  has  happened  to  you,  or  is 
it  all  mere  shyness  and  a  sick  headache?  You  look  as  though 
something  had  frightened  you  half  to  death,  and  you  had  not 
got  over  the  shock  yet." 

She  began  to  talk,  quietly,  easily,  as  a  woman  of  the  world 
knows  how  to  talk  when  it  is  necessary  to  save  some  self- 
conscious  soul  from  torture.  The  sensitive  face  opposite  her 
reminded  her  of  the  face  of  a  flower  that  opens  only  to  the 
sunlight,  and  closes  when  it  is  cold.  The  line  of  the  mouth 
seemed  ready  to  break  into  quivers  of  emotion.  The  dark  eyes 
looked  scared  and  miserable. 

"How  do  you  like  Roymer  Heath?  Isn't  it  rather  lonely 
sometimes?" 

"Lonely?  Yes,  it  is  lonely.  But  then,  of  course,  it  is  very 
beautiful.  I " 

She  paused  vacantly  and  looked  for  a  rescue.  Catharine 
Strange  glided  in  and  began  a  monologue,  wondering  whether 
the  girl  was  in  pain. 

"You  must  come  down  soon  and  see  my  garden.  I  don't 
think  you  play  tennis,  but — croquet?  You  would  soon  learn. 
My  husband  is  an  enthusiast;  he  is  always  scouring  the  neigh- 
bourhood for  someone  who  will  come  and  watch  him  make 
twenty-minute  breaks.  When  he  once  gets  started  I  go  and 
do  a  little  weeding,  or  pick  up  a  book  and  lose  myself  till  he 
misses  a  shot  or  has  done  all  that  is  possible  for  an  ingenious 
man  to  do.  You  must  come  down  and  play.  I  suppose  you  do 
a  good  deal  of  reading?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  109 

"I  read  a  good  deal  to  mother." 

She  glanced  at  the  bookshelves,  and  Catharine  Strange  saw 
in  her  eyes  something  that  was  very  like  hatred  of  those  books. 

"One  can  so  rarely  get  the  books  one  wants  to  read." 

"Look  through  my  shelves  when  you  come  and  take  any- 
thing you  fancy." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you." 

"We  have  to  be  kind  to  each  other  in  the  country.  Besides, 
books  are  no  use  when  they  are  hoarded  away  on  shelves." 

Constance  Brent  made  the  discovery  that  the  austere  woman 
who  had  turned  to  meet  her  when  she  had  entered  the  room 
had  changed,  and  mellowed  to  a  figure  of  grace  and  of  charm. 
The  brown  eyes  were  very  friendly.  They  were  peculiarly  per- 
suasive, eyes  into  which  you  could  look  while  you  talked  of 
intimate  things,  without  fear  of  cynicism  or  of  prejudice. 

"Won't  you  have  some  tea?" 

"It  is  rather  early,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  but " 

She  rose  and  moved  towards  the  bell. 

"Do  stay.  Mother  won't  be  back  yet." 

She  flushed  up,  realising  the  suggestiveness  of  the  ad- 
mission. 

"I  mean— she  will  be  so  sorry  to  have  missed  you.  I'm 
afraid  she  never  goes  out — much." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  should  like  some  tea.  Also,  I  should 
like  to  see  your  garden." 

"We  can  go  round  while  Mary  is  getting  tea.  I'm  afraid 
it  is  rather  a  dull  garden,  but  I  must  introduce  you  to  my 
tame  crow." 

"A  tame  crow?  That's  quite  original.  And,  by  the  way,  I 


no  THE  WHITE  GATE 

shan't  expect  a  formal  call  from  you,  but  you  must  come  down 
and  spend  the  afternoon." 

They  were  standing  in  the  veranda  together,  Constance 
ready  to  pass  out  between  two  of  the  pillars.  She  hesitated, 
and  turned  a  troubled  face  to  Catharine  Strange. 

"Please  don't  think  me  rude,  but  I  am  so  foolishly  shy. 
It's  pain  to  me — sometimes — to  meet  people.  If  I  may  just  come 
and  see  you  when  you  are  alone." 

Catharine  Strange  felt  a  pang  of  pity  and  of  understanding. 
So  the  child  knew  everything,  realised  everything.  Her  sensi- 
tive pride  went  armed. 

"Of  course.  But  you  ought  to  meet  people  sometimes." 

Constance  Brent's  lips  quivered. 

"I  know.  But — perhaps  you  will  let  me  talk  to  you  some- 
times." 

"My  dear,  it  will  do  me  good.  What  is  to-day — Wednesday? 
It's  the  flower  show  on  Friday.  Suppose  you  come  and  spend 
Sunday  afternoon  with  me?" 

Constance  was  looking  at  her  with  eyes  that  seemed  to 
question  her  kindness.  "Why  are  you  bothering  about  me? 
How  is  it  that  you  make  things  so  easy?" 

She  said  aloud:  "I  should  love  to  come." 

"No  one  pays  calls  on  Sundays,  and  we  shall  not  be  both- 
ered. We  are  going  to  get  to  know  each  other  better." 

When  Catharine  Strange  drove  home  she  turned  her  own 
lad  out  by  the  church  with  orders  to  buy  two  bundles  of 
raffia  at  Button's  shop,  and  took  the  lane  that  led  round  by 
Roymer  Thorn.  She  was  not  in  any  way  a  romantic  woman, 
but  she  had  fine  feeling  for  the  spiritual  colour  of  life.  When- 
ever she  came  in  contact  with  a  new  personality  she  put  for- 
ward a  clean,  sensitive,  and  unprejudiced  surface,  and  she 


THE  WHITE  GATE  in 

trusted  very  greatly  to  the  pattern  of  the  impressions  that  were 
made  upon  it.  She  never  forced  herself  either  to  like  or  dislike 
people,  nor  was  she  ever  aggressively  observant. 

"That  girl  has  been  suffering;  it  was  not  all  headache.  Sen- 
sitive— but  not  hysterical.  I  like  her;  yes,  I  like  her.  There 
are  the  makings  of  a  real  woman  there." 

And  so  she  pulled  up  at  Skelton's  gate. 

Josh  was  working  in  the  garden,  and  Mrs.  Strange  hailed 
him. 

"Is  Mr.  Skeltonin?" 

"Dunno.  'Ee  was." 

"Well,  go  and  see." 

Skelton  came  out  of  the  cottage  and  down  the  path  that 
was  all  dappled  gold  with  the  sunlight  through  the  apple 
trees.  He  had  a  peculiarly  radiant  face,  and  eyes  that  shone. 
Moreover,  he  had  forgotten  to  turn  down  his  shirt  sleeves  or 
to  put  on  his  coat. 

"I  am  afraid  I  look  rather  a  tramp." 

A  teasing  look  came  into  her  brown  eyes. 

"You  do,  but  rather  too  intelligent." 

"I  have  just  had  seven  hours — some  of  the  hours  of  my  life. 
Do  you  remember  the  tale  of  the  painter,  Paolo  Uccello?" 

"The  man  who  would  not  come  to  dinner  when  his  wife 
called  him,  because  he  had  such  a  passion  for  perspective?" 

"I  have  just  had  a  fine  bit  of  perspective.  And  the  number 
of  pipes  I  have  smoked " 

"I  know.  Inventive  visions?" 

"I  have  just  got  something  that  has  been  beating  me  for 
months.  Something  that  seems  big  and  so  absurdly  simple 
when  you've  got  it." 


ii2  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"I'm  so  glad.  You  did  not  have  to  shout  in  your  bath 
'Eureka!'  And  I  have  just  been  paying  calls." 

His  face  grew  keener,  and  his  eyes  lost  their  visionary  look, 
and  came  to  point. 

"What!  Up  there?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  really  good  of  you.  I've  been  worried,  and  working 
like  a  pig.  What's  your  impression?" 

He  watched  her  brown  eyes  intently. 

"Youth— in  fetters." 

"You  felt  that?" 

"Yes.  And  they  chafe.  The  girl  knows  what  it  is  to  suffer." 

Skelton's  mouth  hardened. 

"Now,  I  wonder —  Well,  never  mind;  you  have  used  your 
white  witchcraft." 

"She  is  coming  to  spend  Sunday  afternoon  with  me.  I  did 
not  see  the  mother." 

"No  loss,  perhaps." 

"I  drove  round  to  see  if  you  would  care  to  come  in  on 
Sunday." 

Their  eyes  met.  Skelton  stood  to  her  woman's  challenge. 

"Thank  you,  I'll  come." 

She  smiled  at  him  slyly,  affectionately,  for  he  was  a  man 
after  her  own  heart.  Her  eyes  said: 

"You  can  come.  I  am  not  afraid  of  taking  the  responsibility 
of  asking  you,  even  if  you  come  as  a  healer." 


Chapter  Eleven 


JL  HE  rebel  in  Constance  Brent  was  dead. 

Disillusionment  in  one  of  its  phases  had  come  upon  her 
with  such  crude  abruptness  that  she  felt  stunned  into  a  kind 
of  miserable  humility.  The  sheer  animal  selfishness  of  the 
thing  had  shocked  her  horribly,  and  left  life  a  jangle  of  doubts 
and  of  discords. 

What  a  consenting  fool  he  must  have  thought  her,  for  she 
understood  it  all  now,  his  frank  familiarity,  and  his  casual 
slang.  He  had  held  her  to  be  a  cheap  and  likely  victim,  a  girl 
who  was  not  in  the  position  to  be  the  possessor  of  a  sensitive 
pride.  And  she  had  danced  to  him,  innocently,  unconsciously, 
while  he  had  piped. 

The  shock  of  this  new  knowledge  had  hurt  her  so  much 
that  it  had  numbed  all  anger  and  bitterness,  and  reduced  her 
to  a  shrinking  misery  that  accepted  the  facts,  and  did  not 
question  them.  So  men  were  like  that!  This  one  incident  had 
swept  away  a  great  illusion,  and  shattered  all  her  dream 
castles  of  romance.  That  was  what  she  believed,  and  she  was 
constrained  to  shudder  and  to  hide  herself  away  and  to  try 
and  cover  up  her  own  disgust. 

"3 


n4  THE  WHITE  GATE 

She  felt  very  miserable,  and  as  lost  and  lonely  as  a  believer 
in  the  first  hours  of  triumphant  doubt.  The  shock  had  gone 
to  her  soul,  and  she  looked  out  upon  a  tainted  world,  a  world 
of  raw  and  horrible  appetites  and  emotions.  So  fierce  was  her 
repulsion  from  all  things  physical  that  she  had  to  make  her- 
self eat,  and  she  hated  her  own  body.  Colours  had  lost  their 
purity.  Even  white  had  been  smirched  by  a  memory.  Her 
senses  were  so  overstrung  that  the  scent  of  the  night  stock 
nauseated  her.  She  dreamed  dreams  at  night,  and  woke  up 
shivering,  and  feeling  that  life  was  horrible. 

A  desire  to  hide,  to  shut  herself  away,  possessed  her  during 
those  days.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  bear  to  be  looked  at, 
or  to  meet  people's  eyes,  as  though  all  the  humiliation  of  the 
thing  were  stamped  upon  her  face.  There  was  a  red  wound 
in  the  white  breast  of  her  pride.  It  bled,  and  she  hid  herself 
away,  dreading  lest  the  eyes  of  men  should  discover  her 
humiliation. 

Then  came  the  day  when  Catharine  Strange  had  called. 
She  had  caught  Constance  in  a  mood  of  wild  craving  for 
sympathy,  for  those  warm,  delicate  touches  that  the  woman 
Mary  could  not  give.  At  first  the  girl's  intuition  had  been  at 
fault,  trusting  too  much  to  the  mere  externals.  The  elder 
woman's  quiet  charm  had  won  its  way.  Constance  had  come 
out  of  her  nun's  mood  and  consented  to  be  lured  out  a  little 
by  this  woman  of  the  world. 

Then  came  one  of  those  little  tragedies,  a  fit  of  tyrannical 
obtuseness  on  the  part  of  Dora  Brent.  She  had  these  tyrannical 
moods  when  the  old,  greedy,  restless  self  rose  up  and  tri- 
umphed for  a  while  over  the  later  apathy,  insisting  upon  gain- 
ing self-expression  by  domineering  over  something.  Constance 
was  the  readiest  victim,  and  was  seized  upon  and  tortured. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  115 

Catharine  Strange's  call  seemed  to  rouse  the  old  self  to  life. 
Dora  Brent  did  not  take  the  stimulus  to  herself,  but  trans- 
ferred it  to  her  daughter.  People  were  more  inclined  to  be 
friendly,  and  Constance  must  make  responses.  There  was  a 
possible  marriage  to  be  remembered,  a  claim  on  some  man's 
banking  account.  She  would  have  nothing  to  leave  the  girl 
except  her  furniture,  for  her  income  came  from  an  annuity 
that  died  with  her. 

"It's  the  flower  show  to-morrow,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Dress  yourself  up,  Connie,  and  go." 

Constance  looked  scared. 

"I  don't  want  to  go.  I  shan't  know  anybody  there." 

"Fudge!  All  the  more  reason  for  your  going.  There  are 
the  Powers  and  Mrs.  Strange;  they  have  given  the  rest  the 
lead.  Get  introduced  to  people.  Of  course  you  must  go." 

And  since  the  evil-tempered  people  generally  get  their  own 
way  in  life,  Constance  surrendered  rather  than  provoke  one 
of  her  mother's  sulky  moods. 

The  flower  show  was  held  in  the  grounds  of  Roymer  Hall, 
and  Constance  Brent  put  on  her  pink  linen  dress  and  the 
cleanest  pair  of  gloves  she  had,  and  was  driven  down  to  the 
main  lodge,  where  an  under-gardener  sat  at  the  receipt  of 
custom.  She  paid  her  shilling  over  the  wooden  table,  and 
went  in  through  the  iron  gates  hung  from  the  red  brick 
pillars,  finding  herself  in  a  great  avenue  of  elms  with  stretches 
of  parkland  rolling  away  on  either  side.  Her  self-consciousness 
took  on  an  objective  phase,  and  she  could  see  herself  as  a  little 
lonely  figure  in  pink  walking  up  that  depressingly  majestic 
avenue.  Life  was  at  the  other  end  thereof,  the  life  she  had 
desired,  but  which  to-day  she  dreaded. 


ii6  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Other  people  were  walking  up  the  avenue,  villagers  in  their 
Sunday  clothes,  and  wearing  their  Sunday  manners,  manners 
that  were  far  cruder  than  their  clothes.  Constance  Brent  had 
the  instinctive  hatred  of  the  sensitive  soul  for  the  common 
people  with  their  coarse,  prying  interest  in  everything,  and  that 
stupid  shyness  that  makes  them  gauche  and  surly.  She  walked 
fast,  and  they  stared  at  her  as  she  went  by,  raw  girls  in  raw 
finery,  hard-faced  women,  slow-eyed  men,  youths  who  snig- 
gered and  butted  each  other  with  their  elbows. 

"Go's  that?" 

"The  young  woman  from  Furze  Cottage." 

Constance  fancied  that  she  could  catch  remarks  about  her 
dress.  She  was  in  an  abominably  sensitive  mood,  and  it  angered 
her  that  she  should  be  discussed,  in  loudly  suppressed  whispers, 
by  these  people.  The  fine  and  scornful  fastidiousness  of  "breed" 
surged  up  in  her.  She  would  like  to  be  the  great  lady  with 
these  hinds  crowding  at  her  castle  gate.  She  would  have  them 
whipped  out  of  her  sight,  out  of  her  very  knowledge. 

She  caught  herself  in  this  attitude,  and  laughed  a  quick 
and  hard  little  laugh,  but  her  cheeks  flamed.  "The  young 
woman  from,  Furze  Cottage!"  They  had  not  even  given  her 
a  name.  Was  it  their  way  or  only  another —  She  drew  aside 
to  let  a  carriage  pass,  and  met  the  eyes  of  a  stout,  white-faced 
woman  in  black  who  was  lying  back  against  the  cushions. 
The  woman  in  black  stared,  and  to  Constance  the  hard,  ex- 
pressionless eyes  in  the  puffy  face  seemed  contemptuous  and 
hateful.  No,  she  would  not  go  any  farther,  she  would  turn 
back.  Yes,  and  meet  all  those  gawking  villagers,  those  little 
sluts  and  hobbledehoys!  No,  she  would  go  on,  walk  through 
the  tents,  escape  as  soon  as  possible,  and  make  her  way  home. 

She  was  in  no  mood  to  enjoy  the  English  opulence  of  the 


THE  WHITE  GATE  117 

parkland  scenery  with  its  grass  slopes  burnished  by  the  after- 
noon sunlight;  its  great  trees — oaks,  beeches,  cedars,  chest- 
nuts, standing  in  splendid  full-grown  isolation;  its  green  hol- 
lows and  sunk  fences;  its  dark-mouthed  glades;  its  lagoons 
of  bracken  turning  yellow.  She  felt  the  beauty  of  the  place, 
but  it  was  a  strange,  inimical  beauty,  making  her  feel  little, 
lonely,  and  obscure.  The  long,  grey  house  waited  on  the  side 
of  the  hill,  a  house  with  a  classic  portico,  stucco  walls,  and 
windows  that  looked  cold  and  dead.  She  could  see  the  people 
on  the  terrace,  a  crowd  of  bright  little  figures  that  belonged 
there,  and  to  the  life  there.  In  the  meadow  below  the  gardens 
were  the  marquees  and  tents,  the  steam  roundabout,  the  coco- 
nut alleys,  the  shooting  galleries,  the  sweet-stuff  stalls  that  were 
allowed  in  the  park  for  that  one  day.  The  steam  roundabout 
had  not  lifted  up  its  voice  as  yet,  for  it  was  not  permitted  to 
play  the  demagogue  until  the  string  band  on  the  terrace  had 
gone  through  its  garden  party  programme. 

Constance  was  conscious  that  her  own  outlook  was  a  narrow 
slit  in  a  spacious  country  where  big  white  clouds  moved  and 
a  strange  and  half-scornful  life  passed  to  and  fro  above  her 
head.  She  was  as  one  of  the  common  people,  for  she  could 
not  go  up  there  among  the  figures  on  the  terrace.  And  it 
seemed  strange  and  sad,  and  huge  and  mocking,  this  broad 
green  landscape  in  the  broad  green  valley.  She  looked  at  the 
black-mouthed  oak  woods  on  the  hills,  and  wished  herself 
there,  hidden  away  under  some  greenwood  tree. 

Presently  she  found  herself  in  the  first  marquee.  It  was 
full  of  flowers,  and  people,  and  warm  moist  heat,  and  a  kind 
of  yellowish  light  that  made  the  grassways  between  the  ex- 
hibiting stands  look  a  dense,  richer  green.  The  massed  colours 
of  the  flowers  were  blurred  for  her,  as  were  the  faces  of  the 


ii8  THE  WHITE  GATE 

people.  Only  one  face  came  fully  focused  upon  her  conscious- 
ness, a  serene  and  podgy  face  that  drifted  on  her  suddenly 
from  behind  a  mass  of  purple  Michaelmas  daisies  and  white 
phloxes,  and  looked  at  and  through  her  with  calmly  blind 
blue  eyes.  Constance  had  given  the  flicker  of  a  smile,  but  Mrs. 
Cottle  might  not  have  known  her  from  Eve,  though  Mrs. 
Power  had  introduced  the  girl  to  her  that  day  at  "Vernors." 
Or,  perhaps,  Constance  may  have  personified  Eve  trespassing 
among  the  flowers  proper  to  an  English  garden. 

Constance  felt  the  instant  humiliation.  She  did  not  glance 
at  blood-red  gladioli  or  purple  phloxes,  or  at  the  posies  of 
cottage  flowers,  but  passed  out  from  the  colour  and  the  warm 
scents  and  the  babble  of  tongues.  A  lane  of  brown  and  tram- 
pled grass  between  canvas  screens  brought  her  to  the  second 
marquee  where  fruit  and  vegetables  were  on  show. 

She  was  doomed  to  run  against  something  far  worse  than 
Mrs.  Cottle's  wilful  blindness,  for  wedged  between  three 
argumentative  old  men  and  a  tray  of  peaches  she  was  brought 
face  to  face  with  Bertie  Gascoyne.  He  was  lounging  through 
the  marquee  with  his  mother,  looking  profoundly  bored  and 
stolidly  contemptuous. 

They  were  almost  in  contact  before  he  noticed  Constance 
Brent.  His  eyes  flew  away  instandy  from  hers,  and  his  brown 
face  grew  red  and  hot.  Mrs.  Gascoyne,  with  her  huge  death 
mask  of  melancholy,  walked  on  as  though  the  tent  were 
empty,  and  somehow  these  two  shuffled  past  each  other,  shame- 
fully, furtively,  without  a  flicker  of  recognition  in  their  eyes. 

Constance  felt  ready  to  stifle  in  the  close,  warm  atmosphere. 
She  made  her  way  out  of  the  tent  and  stood  for  a  moment 
holding  to  one  of  the  guy  ropes.  A  feeling  of  nausea  and  faint- 
ness  seized  her,  and  black  specks  jigged  and  danced  before  her 


THE  WHITE  GATE  119 

eyes.  Conscious  that  the  people  were  staring  at  her  she  rallied 
herself  and  walked  away  in  the  direction  of  the  coco-nut  alleys 
and  the  shooting  gallery.  Trade  was  busy  here,  and  since 
people  seemed  intent  upon  breaking  bottles  and  hitting  the 
coloured  balls  that  danced  upon  jets  of  water,  she  paused,  feel- 
ing that  there  was  less  likelihood  of  her  being  stared  at.  The 
two  Cottle  boys  and  Terence  Snape  were  at  the  shooting 
gallery,  betting  against  each  other  and  being  provoked  and 
encouraged  by  the  cheeky,  hard-faced  young  woman  who 
loaded  the  guns. 

"Two  up  on  you,  Emma!" 

"I'm  on  that  blue  one.  There  she  goes!" 

"Lord!  you  gents  won't  leave  us  a  sound  bottle!" 

The  elder  Cottle  turned,  and  saw  Constance  Brent  watch- 
ing the  villagers  throwing  for  coco-nuts.  He  was  a  young  man 
who  looked  all  profile,  like  one  of  those  old-fashioned  tin  sol- 
diers with  a  Roman  nose  and  a  hard  little  ginger-coloured 
moustache.  His  red-brown  eyes  twinkled,  and  he  nudged  his 
brother's  elbow. 

"Shut  up!  You've  made  me  boss." 

"There's  Bertie's  pink  'un." 

The  three  of  them  turned  their  heads  simultaneously,  and 
the  concentrated  interest  of  the  three  pairs  of  eyes  willed  Con- 
stance to  look  their  way.  She  flushed  and  walked  on,  bearing 
towards  the  back  of  one  of  the  big  marquees,  meaning  to  pass 
under  its  sheltering  lee  and  escape  towards  the  road. 

"Hallo!  there  goes  Bertie." 

"Hurry  up,  you  bounder!" 

"Stoke  up,  and  get  up  steam!" 

Five  minutes  ago  Richard  Skelton  had  come  to  the  door  of 
one  of  the  tents,  and  stood  there  in  the  shadow,  watching 


120  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Constance  Brent.  She  did  not  guess  that  this  man's  eyes  had 
been  on  her  from  the  moment  when  she  had  entered  the 
marquee,  and  that  he  had  followed  her  and  seen  her  cut  by 
Mrs.  Cottle  and  the  Gascoynes.  He  had  been  absorbing  im- 
pressions, watching  a  play,  moving  towards  anger,  pity,  and 
passion.  His  soul  had  shadowed  hers,  and  she  had  gone  in 
ignorance  of  his  chivalrous  nearness  to  her  all  the  time. 

Now,  what  Skelton  saw  outside  the  marquee  was  both 
dramatic  and  suggestive.  Bertie  Gascoyne  lounged  out  of  one 
of  the  doorways,  glanced  right  and  left  with  affected  careless- 
ness, and  sighted  the  figure  in  pink  disappearing  round  the 
back  of  the  farther  marquee.  He  took  another  survey  of  his 
surroundings,  shoved  his  hands  into  his  coat  pockets,  and 
started  after  Constance  Brent. 

Skelton  waited  till  he  saw  the  full  square  of  Herbert  Gas- 
coyne's  back  before  he  strolled  after  him.  Gascoyne  overtook 
the  girl  as  she  was  passing  along  the  blind  side  of  the  refresh- 
ment tent.  No  one  else  was  about,  and  Skelton  saw  him  raise 
his  hat.  That  gesture  betrayed  everything.  He  could  recognise 
her  on  the  "back  stairs,"  but  not  under  the  eyes  of  his  mother. 

"I  say,  Connie." 

The  girl  flashed  round  on  him  with  a  face  that  was  as 
white  as  pear  blossom. 

"How  dare  you  speak  to  me!" 

"Tut-tut!" 

"How  dare  you!" 

Her  scorn  dominated  her,  stiffening  her  slight  throat  and 
body,  and  giving  her  a  dignity  that  was  fierce  and  convincing. 
She  had  spoken  very  quietly,  but  with  a  voice  that  went  level 
and  straight  as  the  thrust  of  a  spear.  Bertie  Gascoyne  had 


THE  WHITE  GATE  121 

blundered  against  the  steel  of  her  scorn,  and  it  pierced  even 
his  thick-skinned  conceit,  and  left  him  deflated. 

"I  say!" 

She  did  not  speak  again,  but  looked  at  him  for  one  mo- 
ment with  the  uttermost  loathing  and  contempt  before  turn- 
ing to  walk  on.  Herbert  Gascoyne  did  not  follow  her,  but 
stuffed  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  glanced  nervously  round, 
and,  sighting  Skelton,  marched  off  diagonally  towards  the 
shooting  gallery. 

"Damn  the  little  cat — damn  her!  And  damn  you,  too!  Who 
the  devil  are  you  staring  at?" 

He  said  these  things  very  softly,  for  the  clown  in  him  was 
cowed. 

Skelton  strolled  on  a  little  farther.  The  pink  figure  had 
reached  the  road  and  was  entering  the  avenue  of  elms.  Some- 
times it  was  in  the  shadow  thrown  by  the  great  trunks,  some- 
times in  the  sunlight  that  poured  through  between  them.  He 
wanted  to  follow  her,  to  spread  the  cloak  of  chivalry  over 
the  puddle  of  young  Gascoyne's  caddishness,  but  a  sensitive 
visioning  of  her  mood  held  him  back. 

Near  the  lodge  Constance  Brent  met  Catharine  Strange 
driving  alone  in  her  pony  cart.  She  pulled  up  and  leant  for- 
ward, smiling,  and  observing  while  she  smiled: 

"Going  away  so  early?  I  thought  I  might  come  across  you 
here." 

Constance's  composure  was  a  thin  and  frozen  surface  that 
hid  anger  and  tears. 

"It  was  so  stuffy  in  the  tents." 

"I  know.  Don't  forget  Sunday,  will  you?" 

"No;  I  shall  not  forget." 

Catharine  Strange  drove  on,  and  half  an  hour  later  she 


122  THE  WHITE  GATE 

met  Skelton  before  her  own  exhibit  of  herbaceous  plants  that 
had  taken  the  first  prize. 

"Congratulations." 

She  was  delighted,  just  as  delighted  as  if  the  flowers  had 
been  clever  children  that  had  brought  her  honour. 

"Thank  you.  I  have  looked  at  nearly  everything.  How  hot 
it  is  in  here.  Shall  we  go  up  to  the  house  and  get  some  tea?" 

When  they  were  outside  she  said,  "I  met  our  'sensitive' 
in  the  avenue.  I  suspected  that  some  raw  surface  had  been 
touched." 

He  smiled  rather  fiercely. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  saw  some  of  it.  What  callous  beasts  some  of 
you  women  are." 

"I  plead  guilty." 

"For  the  others,  yes.  You  know,  I  can't  stand  most  women, 
and  I  can  find  something  to  like  in  most  men." 

"But  you  must  remember " 

"I  wouldn't  mind  if  some  of  them  would  not  insist  on 
talking  so  much,  and  on  being  such  absurd  little  Brummagen 
Juggernauts  on  tin-wheeled  stands.  What  is  most  women's 
talk?  What  somebody  else  said  or  wrote — second-hand  stuff. 
You  get  a  man's  personal  grip." 

"You  are  in  a  bad  temper  to-day!" 

"I,  too,  have  a  raw  surface." 


Chapter  Twelve 


As  S  KELT  ON  came  along  the  road  under  the  yew  hedge 
of  "Green  Banks"  he  heard  Mrs.  Strange  and  Constance 
Brent  talking  in  the  garden  beyond  the  hedge.  The  voices 
made  an  intimate  and  reposeful  murmur,  and  hinted  at  a 
mingling  of  two  sympathetic  natures.  In  walking  up  the  drive 
he  had  a  glimpse  between  a  purple-spiked  buddleia  magnifica 
and  the  crowded  pink  cups  of  a  hibiscus  of  these  two  women 
sitting  under  the  shade  of  the  cedar.  Constance  Brent  was  in 
white,  Catharine  Strange  in  one  of  her  quiet  black  gowns,  so 
that  the  black  and  the  white  were  in  subtle  contrast. 

Constance  Brent's  voice  had  been  the  more  animated  of 
the  two,  but  the  sound  of  Skelton's  footsteps  on  the  gravel 
put  a  diminuendo  to  its  flow.  Her  voice  seemed  to  break  oil 
like  a  bird's  singing  when  some  intruder  comes  pushing 
through  a  wood. 

Constance  had  her  back  towards  the  house,  and  her  half- 
turned  profile  was  restless  and  expectant.  Nor  was  it  a  pleased 
expectancy,  but  the  waiting  look  of  one  who  resents  being 
disturbed. 

123 


124  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Skelton  met  Catharine  Strange's  eyes  as  she  rose. 

"I  hope  I  am  not  too  much  of  a  third?" 

"I  am  so  glad  you've  come.  Peter  is  having  his  Sunday  prowl 
in  the  woods;  he  will  be  back  for  tea.  You  know  Miss  Brent?" 

"Yes.  We  once  explored  the  'Vernors'  garden  together." 

He  stood  bareheaded,  looking  down  at  her  and  holding  out 
a  hand,  but  for  a  moment  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  hand. 
Her  eyes  had  taken  a  curiously  clouded  expression,  as  though 
the  life  had  sunk  back  and  left  them  cold  and  empty. 

"You  remember  'Vernors'?" 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

She  did  not  respond  to  his  smile,  and  Skelton  drew  up  a 
chair  and  sat  down,  conscious  that  the  figure  in  white  had 
stiffened  into  shyness.  His  coming  had  spoilt  her  self-forget- 
fulness,  made  the  sensitive  petals  close,  and  he  wondered  why. 

He  glanced  at  Catharine  Strange. 

"Well,  how  did  Hobbs  take  your  triumph?  Has  he  been 
parading  the  village  with  a  chaplet  of  bays?" 

"He  paraded  rather  more  seriously  than  that." 

"Oh!" 

"Hobbs  is  my  gardener,  Miss  Brent,  and  he  has  a  most  hor- 
rible hatred  of  the  Powers'  head  man.  I  believe  it  all  arose 
about  a  prize  onion.  I  must  say  the  Powers'  man  is  a  most 
offensive  person — considers  himself  a  textbook.  They  are  par- 
ticularly proud  of  their  herbaceous  flowers,  and  we  beat  them 
this  year." 

"What  did  Hobbs  do— exult  in  public?" 

"Very  much  in  public." 

"The  'King's  Head'!" 

"And  a  black  eye.  If  I  had  known  that  my  phloxes  were 
going  to  make  Hobbs  get  intoxicated " 


THE  WHITE  GATE  125 

"Oh,  perhaps  it  was  the  colour.  One  hears  of  people  being 
drunk  with  colour." 

They  laughed,  and  Skelton  glanced  at  Constance  Brent. 
Her  eyes  met  his  for  a  moment,  and  then  fell  away,  but  he 
had  caught  the  distant,  critical  look  in  them,  the  watchful 
spirit  that  gazed  down  from  a  little  ledge  of  shadowy  distrust 
She  regarded  him  as  a  stranger,  and  was  not  glad  of  the 
intrusion. 

"What  should  we  do  if  we  did  not  have  our  dissipated  mo- 
ments? Hobbs  has  a  swelled  head  and  a  black  eye,  and  is 
happy.  I  have  a  sort  of  liking  for  an  incorrigible  blackguard." 

"Hobbs  is  a  most  respectable  man.  That  is  what  makes  it 
so  tragic." 

"Respectable!  Have  you  ever  realised  how  English  that 
word  is?  We  are  the  'respectable'  nation.  Hurrah!" 

He  was  in  a  Skeltonian  mood,  and  inclined  to  be  a  little 
outrageous,  perhaps  because  he  wanted  to  dissipate  the  girl's 
reserve. 

"Just  be  carried  off  one's  pedestal  by  some  intoxicating  im- 
pulse! I  have  my  dissipated  fits  over  books.  I  believe  you  have 
dissipated  moments  when  you  look  through  gardening  cata- 
logues. And  I  believe  there  are  shops  in  most  towns 
where " 

His  eyes  challenged  Constance,  but  she  held  aloof,  watching 
and  listening. 

"If  you  mean  giving  away  to  whims " 

"Of  course  I  do,  or  life  might  just  as  well  be  turned  into 
a  hardware  business.  I  assure  you  there  are  times  when  I 
should  like  to  make  a  whole  community — Roymer,  for  in- 
stance— just  a  little  drunk,  to  see  the  stiffness  taken  out  of  all 
the  social  joints." 


126  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"People  would  be  ten  times  more  horrid." 

"But  think  of  the  possible  humour.  Think  how  one  would 
talk  to  one's  butcher:  'Blodge,  my  dear  old  fellow,  your  meat 
is  a  dream;  you  never  send  big  enough  joints,  and  you  don't 
weigh  in  enough  bone?'  Or  women  might  become  deliciously 
frank,  and  exclaim:  'Darling,  how  beautifully  that  old  dress 
of  yours  has  dyed.'  " 

"Would  you  be  cynical  even  when " 

"Oh,  come  now — cynical." 

He  glanced  at  Constance  Brent  as  though  for  help,  and 
found  that  the  white  figure  seemed  a  little  stiffer  and  the  dark 
eyes  more  obscure  and  clouded. 

"I  think  all  men  must  be  cynical,  or  very  stupid." 

It  struck  him  suddenly  how  very  young  she  was,  and  how 
unused  to  subtle  and  preposterous  fooling.  Probably  she  was 
ready  to  be  shocked  by  it,  life  having  been  deadly  and  earnestly 
dull. 

He  looked  at  her  frankly,  with  a  brotherly  boldness. 

"Don't  be  so  very  hard  on  me,  Miss  Brent.  If  I  talk  a  lot 
of  nonsense  Mrs.  Strange  will  tell  you  that  I  am  not  even  an 
Irishman." 

She  opened  her  eyes  at  him,  and  Mrs.  Strange  cut  in: 

"He  is  really  quite  English." 

"I  was  wondering " 

"Don't  say  you  thought  me  an  Hibernian!  I  can  stand  a 
good  deal " 

Constance  looked  at  him  obliquely. 

"You  see,  I  have  been  trying  to  grow  young  again." 

"Isn't  youth  rather  serious?" 

"Our  first  youth.  Second  youth  arrives  later,  and  is  alto- 
gether more  playful." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  127 

"I  see." 

"Now,  take  Captain  Strange.  He  is  in  the  sporting  six- 


ties  " 

"You  will  be  getting  epigrammatical." 

The  austere  note  in  Mrs.  Strange's  voice  brought  him  to 
attention.  He  met  her  brown  eyes,  and  appeared  to  interro- 
gate them. 

"Am  I  getting  too  clever?" 

"Haven't  you  so  often  abused  people  who  will  talk  cleverly  ? 
It  is  like  sitting  in  a  draught." 

"That's  brilliant!  But  why?" 

The  glimmer  in  her  brown  eyes  made  him  think  of  a 
mother  posing  a  child  with  some  cunning  question.  She  was 
longing  to  give  him  the  answer,  and  willing  him  to  find  it 
for  himself.  "Why  has  she  withered  up?  Don't  you  see  she  is 
afraid  of  you  ?  Think  how  much  older  we  are,  though  I  grant 
you  the  girl  is  difficult." 

Captain  Strange  and  tea  arrived  simultaneously,  but  even 
that  cheery  man  of  irregular  quips  and  regular  habits  could 
not  save  the  afternoon  from  failure.  The  girl's  constrained 
reserve  was  too  apparent  to  be  forgotten,  and  though  they 
talked  to  make  her  open  her  petals,  the  white  bud  remained 
closed.  She  was  in  a  hopelessly  self-conscious  and  defensive 
mood,  angry  with  herself,  and  half  angry  with  Skelton  be- 
cause he  had  made  her  feel  a  fool. 

At  five  o'clock  Constance  began  pulling  on  her  gloves. 

"I  am  afraid  I  must  be  going.  Mother  will  be  wanting  me 
to  read  to  her."  She  felt  in  an  absurd  fever  to  escape.  "Yes,  I 
must  really  be  going." 

Skelton  rose,  too,  glancing  at  Catharine  Strange. 

"You  must  come  down  again  soon  and  play  croquet." 


128  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Thank  you  so  much." 

She  stood  to  shake  hands  with  Skelton. 

"I  am  coming  your  way.  May  I  see  you  home?" 

"Please  don't  bother." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  obstinate  alarm. 

"It's  no  bother." 

"Really,  I  would  rather " 

"I  have  to  go  up  to  the  'Three  Firs'  to  see  a  friend." 

She  could  not  blurt  out  the  truth  before  them  all,  that  she 
hated  the  idea  of  his  coming  with  her  and  that  she  wanted 
to  be  alone.  She  accepted  the  thing  as  inevitable,  but  she  of- 
fered no  thanks,  and  they  walked  off  down  the  drive  together, 
leaving  the  Stranges  staring  whimsically  at  each  other  across 
the  tea  table. 

"My  dear  Kate,  what  an  awkward  young  woman!" 

"Be  grateful  that  you  have  never  known  what  it  is  to  be  as 
delicately  strung  as  a  violin." 

"A  healthy  young  woman  ought  not  to  be  like  that." 

"Perhaps  not.  But  if  men  insist  on  having  exquisite 
music " 

Skelton  was  glancing  tentatively  at  a  clear  white  profile  that 
drifted  along  as  though  intent  upon  dissociating  itself  from 
his  comradeship.  A  pathetic  haughtiness  had  come  suddenly 
upon  her.  The  man  ought  to  have  had  the  sense  to  see  that 
she  had  not  desired  his  presence. 

"Which  do  you  vote  for,  the  lane  or  the  woods?" 

"Oh,  the  lane." 

"It  is  the  longer  way." 

"I  really  don't  care." 

It  was  like  attempting  to  open  a  door  and  having  it  slammed 
petulantly  at  each  attempt.  Once  her  eyes  met  his,  and  he 


THE  WHITE  GATE  129 

was  surprised  by  the  active  antagonism  in  them  and  by  some- 
thing that  was  akin  to  fear.  Her  eyes  almost  said,  "Men  are 
beasts,  and  you  are  a  man.  I  wonder  why  you  had  not  the 
sense  to  let  me  walk  home  alone." 

He  caught  a  hint  of  this,  and  it  set  him  thinking  while  a 
mere  surface  self  talked  conventional  stuff  to  her.  What  did 
the  mood  mean?  Might  it  be  that  her  too  sensitive  pride  had 
been  outraged,  and  that  she  had  been  bitterly  shocked  by 
some  caddish  contretemps?  He  had  a  vivid  memory  of  the 
way  she  had  turned  on  Herbert  Gascoyne.  Something  had 
happened  between  them,  and  he  was  tempted  to  believe  that 
the  distrust  and  distance  in  her  eyes  symbolised  the  outlook 
that  some  harsh  incident  had  forced  upon  her. 

Strange  as  it  might  have  seemed  to  a  younger  man,  this 
curt  and  defensive  mood  of  Vrs  roused  in  him  a  deeper  and 
more  generous  compassion.  1  Je  saw  beneath  the  cold,  white 
surface,  and  behind  the  clouded  unfriendliness  of  the  eyes. 
He  believed  that  he  could  understand  this  fragile,  lonely,  sen- 
sitive spirit,  blown  like  a  white  flower  by  the  night  wind, 
complaining  vaguely  like  a  harp  set  in  a  window.  She  was 
afraid  of  him,  afraid  of  the  male  in  him.  He  felt  it,  was  sure 
of  it,  and  was  angry  with  life  for  her  sake. 

It  seemed  impossible  to  lure  her  into  talking,  so  he  set  out 
to  tell  her  about  Bobbie  Dent  up  at  the  "Three  Firs,"  and 
how  that  bedridden  youngster  swallowed  mathematics  as  an 
ordinary  boy  swallows  sweets.  His  breezy,  vivid  human 
touches  were  impulsively  excellent,  and  presendy  he  dis- 
covered that  he  was  interesting  her,  and  that  the  sense  of 
prejudiced  restraint  had  lessened. 

"Do  you  go  up  there  often?" 


i3o  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Once  a  week  at  least.  It  does  me  an  immense  amount  of 
good." 

"Teaching  him?" 

"Seeing  the  youngster's  keenness  and  pluck.  People  talk  of 
offering  up  prayers.  Well,  you  know,  anything  that  is  bravely 
borne  or  bravely  done  is  a  bit  of  prayer." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  had 
softened. 

"And  yet  you  are  a  busy  man." 

"Am  I?" 

"Mrs.  Strange " 

"Mrs.  Strange  is  one  of  those  encouraging  women  who  al- 
ways believe  that  we  work  harder  than  we  do.  I  have  orgies 
of  hard  work.  That's  how  a  man's  mood  so  often  takes  him." 

Her  eyes  let  a  gleam  of  interest  escape. 

"You  are  an  inventor,  aren't  you?" 

"Something  of  the  kind.  It  is  fascinating  work." 

She  sighed.  "Something  to  think  about — always." 

"There  is  a  lot  in  that!  No  empty  cellars  with  trapdoors 
that  let  you  fall  in — flop.  As  you  say,  there  is  always  some- 
thing to  think  about." 

"You  are  lucky,"  she  said  sadly. 

And  that  air  of  softened  sadness  remained  with  her;  she 
seemed  to  be  thinking,  visualising  some  grey  future  that  took 
all  the  youth  from  her  body  and  the  hope  from  her  eyes. 
Skelton  felt  touched  by  her  silence  and  by  the  tristful  mood 
that  had  come  over  her. 

They  turned  into  Briar  Lane,  and  it  struck  him  that  her 
face  grew  thinner  and  bleaker. 

"What  about  music?"  He  broke  a  silence  that  was  becom- 


THE  WHITE  GATE  131 

ing  irksome.  "I  have  heard  you  singing  once  or  twice  when 
I  have  happened  to  come  this  way." 

Her  face  came  sharply  out  of  its  musings,  as  though  she 
had  forgotten  his  presence  and  had  been  roused  to  it  by  his 
hand  touching  hers.  Her  eyes  looked  startled,  mistrustful,  half 
defiant.  The  old  defensive,  doubting  look  came  back.  Possibly 
it  was  all  a  matter  of  association,  for  there  are  some  memories 
that  are  so  poignandy  vivid  that  they  can  reproduce  physical 
nausea. 

"I  am  rather  fond  of  music.  Yes,  I  can  turn  of?  here;  there 
is  a  path  to  our  garden  gate." 

She  drew  away  from  him  quickly,  almost  with  the  air  of  a 
prude  drawing  her  clothes  more  closely  about  her.  He  caught 
one  glimpse  of  her  scared,  elvish  eyes. 

"Good-bye." 

"Good  night,  and  thank  you." 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  care  to  go  up  and  see  Bobbie  Dent 
sometimes?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  I  might.  I  have  so  little  time  to  myself. 
I  must  go  in  now.  Good  afternoon." 

It  was  an  escape,  a  flying  from  something,  and  Skelton  stood 
looking  after  her,  pained,  touched,  and  silenced.  A  light  that 
was  unforgettable  came  into  his  eyes.  The  very  deeps  of  them 
gleamed  out  after  her. 

"My  dear,  if  you  would  let  me  try  my  hand  at  healing 
you!" 

He  did  not  go  to  the  "Three  Firs"  that  evening,  but  spent 
it  wandering  on  Roymer  Heath,  watching  the  sunset  and 
feeling  himself  taking  fire. 


Chapter  Thirteen 


L*  OR  many  people  the  passing  of  summer  is  a  season  of 
sadness  and  regret.  With  the  browning  of  the  leaves  and  the 
sinking  of  the  sap  the  lustiness  seems  out  of  life;  spiders  spin 
webs  in  corners,  and  the  dew  hangs  there;  the  eye  sees  the 
red  in  the  leaf  glowing  and  throbbing  with  pain.  A  symboli- 
cal scent  hangs  everywhere,  calling  up  thoughts  of  dead 
queens  lying  in  faded  scarlets,  and  the  dust  of  desire  blown 
hither  and  thither  by  autumn  winds. 

Constance  Brent  was  one  of  those  who  felt  the  change  of  the 
seasons.  Spring  was  her  good  cheer  but  autumn  brought  a 
feeling  of  physical  slackness,  a  melancholy  that  hung  like  fog 
about  dripping  trees,  an  instinctive  dread  of  the  shorter  days. 
She  loved  the  beauty  of  bluebells  under  golden  oaks,  the 
rank  green  promise  of  the  flower-filled  grass,  the  mystery  and 
the  greenness,  and  the  singing  of  birds.  But  the  beauty  of 
autumn  had  no  impulse  towards  joy,  with  blood  in  the  hedge- 
rows and  death  among  the  flowers.  The  wind  cried  "Winter 
comes,"  and  a  little  shudder  would  go  through  her  as  she 
thought  of  an  infinitude  of  dreary  days.  Rain,  mud,  raw 

132 


THE  WHITE  GATE  133 

cold,  hours  of  yawning  in  a  yawning  house,  the  long,  boring 
evenings,  that  terrible  feeling  that  life  was  slipping — slipping 
into  some  bottomless  abyss!  No  dances,  no  house  parties,  no 
laughter  before  a  roaring  fire,  no  jaunts  up  to  London,  no 
change,  no  surprises. 

Mid-September  brought  two  weeks  of  wind  and  rain — 
wild  blustery  days  that  rushed  hither  and  thither  and  beat 
the  pomp  and  pageantry  of  summer  to  pieces.  The  firs  in  the 
woods  moaned  and  swayed  and  lashed  each  other  like  fanati- 
cal flagellants.  Birch  leaves  came  scattering  down  in  amber 
showers,  the  asters  and  chrysanthemums  in  the  garden  were 
dashed  and  overborne.  The  clouds  pressed  low  upon  the  hills, 
preparing  to  unfurl  the  wet  canopy  of  winter  over  the  land. 

Constance  felt  stagnation  settling  upon  her,  a  pessimism 
that  resigned  itself  without  a  struggle.  She  no  longer  hoped 
for  anything,  asking  herself  what  there  was  to  hope  for,  since 
even  her  dreams  had  been  spoilt.  Humiliation  was  upon  her, 
the  humiliation  of  the  past,  so  that  she  felt  like  one  of  those 
superfluous  women  who  have  ceased  to  wonder  at  life,  and 
whose  thoughts  begin  to  secrete  a  bitter  juice.  The  dreariness 
of  it  all  smothered  her  spirit,  so  that  she  told  herself  that  she 
did  not  care  what  happened.  She  hid  herself  away  with 
wounded  recklessness,  refusing  Catharine  Strange's  invita- 
tions to  "Green  Banks,"  and  insisting  on  the  belief  that  no 
one  really  cared  whether  she  went  or  whether  she  stayed 
away.  She  let  her  morbid  moods  blow  as  they  pleased,  and 
drifted  through  the  wet  woods  and  the  dripping  lanes,  feel- 
ing like  a  ghost  of  her  old  self,  uncared-for  and  uncaring.  The 
life  about  her  was  so  much  grey  mist.  She  saw  nothing, 
touched  nothing,  but  rose  in  the  morning,  dressed  herself, 
ate,  read,  walked,  and  went  to  bed.-  She  had  not  opened  the 


i34  THE  WHITE  GATE 

piano  for  a  month.  Song  would  not  rise  to  the  surface.  It 
reached  her  throat,  hovered  there,  and  then  dropped  back  with 
a  fluttering  helplessness. 

Coming  back  through  the  wet  dusk  of  a  September  eve- 
ning, after  one  of  her  long  walks  over  the  heath,  she  found 
that  the  lamps  had  not  been  lit  and  that  Mary  was  not  in  the 
kitchen.  After  hanging  up  her  coat  to  dry  and  lighting  the 
hall  lamp,  she  made  her  way  to  the  drawing-room,  where  she 
expected  to  find  her  mother.  There  was  a  figure  on  the  sofa 
by  the  window — a  figure  that  snored. 

Constance  crossed  the  room,  and  in  coming  nearer  to  Dora 
Brent  she  could  not  help  noticing  an  unfamiliar  odour.  Gussie, 
who  was  lying  on  a  cushion,  woke  up,  and  barked  at  her  in 
the  dusk.  The  sound  roused  the  sleeping  woman.  She  sat 
up,  staring  about  her  with  heavy,  vacant  eyes. 

"Silly  iddle  sing!  Silly  sing!" 

Her  voice  was  thick,  and  fumbled  over  the  words. 

"Where's  Mary,  mother?" 

"Mary?  Ma-ry  had  1'ttle  lamb.  Silly  zing!  G'ussie,  Fttlc 
lamb " 

She  broke  into  foolish,  giggling  laughter,  trying  to  reach 
out  and  caress  the  dog,  who  lay  on  a  chair  beside  her.  Even 
he  seemed  to  see  in  her  something  unfamiliar  and  strange, 
for  he  drew  back,  growling. 

"Oh,  naughty  sing!  Growl  at  muvver!" 

Constance  wondered  whether  she  was  still  half  asleep. 

"Has  Mary  gone  down  the  village?" 

"Has  Mary  g-gone  down  th'  village?  Don't  know— don't 
care!  Don't  fuss " 

An  empty,  high-pitched  giggle  took  her,  and  her  whole 


THE  WHITE  GATE  135 

body  shook.  Her  hands  kept  wandering  about  aimlessly.  Con- 
stance felt  frightened. 

"Aren't  you  well?" 

"Don't  fuss.  Let  me  go  to  sleep  again — sleepy." 

Constance  heard  someone  moving  in  the  kitchen,  and  she 
hurried  there,  to  find  that  Mary  had  lit  the  lamp  and  was 
taking  off  her  hat  and  cloak. 

"I've  just  been  down  to  Dutton's,  Miss  Connie.  He  forgot 
to  send  the  soup  tablets.  But  you  do  look  tired!  You've  been 
walking  too  far." 

"I  don't  think  mother's  very  well,  Mary." 

The  woman's  face  stiffened,  and  an  intent  look  came  into 
her  eyes. 

"Not  well?" 

"I  found  her  asleep,  and  she's  so  funny." 

"I'll  go  and  see." 

"Perhaps  we  ought  to  send  for  Dr.  Garside." 

Mary  remained  reassuringly  imperturbable. 

"One  of  her  whims,  more  like.  I'll  go  and  see.  And  you  go 
and  lie  down  till  dinner,  Miss  Connie;  you  look  tired  out." 

She  waited  till  Constance  was  on  the  stairs  before  she  lit 
a  candle  and  entered  the  drawing-room.  The  light  showed 
what  the  dusk  had  hidden,  and  what  Mary  had  seen  matur- 
ing for  many  a  long  day.  She  frowned,  closed  the  door,  and 
went  and  stood  over  Dora  Brent. 

"Do  you  know  you've  let  her  see  you  like  this?" 

Dora  Brent  giggled. 

"As  I  was  s-saying  t'  Gussie,  poor  dear  Dora — poor  dear 
Dora's  so  sad " 

Mary  caught  her  by  the  shoulder  and  shook  her. 

"Why  can't  you  do  it  decent?  Let  me  get  you  to  bed." 


136  THE  WHITE  GATE 

The  suffused  and  stupid  face  flushed  with  anger. 

"Dare  you!  Leave  th'  room." 

"I  have  got  to  get  you  to  bed.  As  if  you  couldn't —  It's 
cruel!" 

"Go  to  bed,  Mary,  go  t'  bed,  yes;  don't  forget  to  t-turn  out 
th'  lights." 

Partly  by  scolding  and  pardy  by  the  steady  persuasion 
of  a  pair  of  strong  hands,  Mary  got  Dora  Brent  to  her  bed- 
room and  put  her  to  bed.  She  was  thinking  all  the  while  of 
Constance  and  what  she  should  say  to  her. 

"Don't  you  worry,  Miss  Connie.  There  isn't  any  need  to 
send  for  the  doctor.  When  you  get  a  bit  older  you'll  under- 
stand." 

They  were  whispering  in  the  passage,  the  candlelight  shin- 
ing in  Constance  Brent's  eyes. 

"But  what  is  it,  Mary?" 

She  was  twenty-two,  but  in  some  ways  her  knowledge  was 
the  knowledge  of  a  child  of  ten. 

"Something  women  have  to  put  up  with.  Don't  you  fret. 
I've  helped  her  to  bed,  and  she'll  soon  be  asleep.  Now  I'll 
go  and  get  you  some  dinner." 

For  months  Mary  had  been  watching  this  last  phase  that 
shows  itself  in  many  such  a  life  as  Dora  Brent's.  The  square 
bottles  that  came  up  from  Dutton's  shop  to  be  hidden  away 
in  the  bedroom  cupboard  were  only  too  indicative  of  a  further 
stage  of  degeneration.  There  had  been  words  between  mistress 
and  servant  over  the  incipient  habit,  but  Mary  had  no  threats 
with  which  to  terrorise  Dora  Brent,  and  nothing  that  she 
could  appeal  to.  As  for  the  inevitable  betrayal,  she  dreaded 
it  for  Constance's  sake,  and  often  asked  herself  how  long  it 
would  be  before  this  last  degradation  forced  itself  upon  the 


THE  WHITE  GATE  137 

girl's  inexperience  of  such  things.  She  watched  the  powdered 
face  being  powdered  more  heavily,  and  noticed  the  lavish  use 
of  scent.  Dora  Brent  still  cared  a  little,  but  Mary  knew  that 
the  time  would  come  when  she  would  cease  to  care  at  all. 

"She'd  be  better  dead,"  said  the  woman  to  herself  before 
blowing  out  her  candle  that  night;  "dead,  yes,  and  what  will 
happen  to  Miss  Connie?  She  won't  have  anything  but  the 
furniture;  I  know  that  much.  And  what  can  she  do?  Good 
Lord!  But  life's  a  rare  mess  of  a  thing  at  times,  all  upside 
down  and  in  a  tangle!  You're  like  a  rabbit  in  a  burrow;  if 
you  bolt  from  the  ferret  the  man  with  the  gun  gives  you  what 
for!  I  give  it  up.  It's  too  beastly  cruel.  Bless  me  if  it  does 
to  think." 

She  became  more  watchful  and  more  alert,  shadowing  Dora 
Brent's  habits  as  a  keeper  shadows  a  dangerous  lunatic.  She 
knew  how  the  thing  must  end,  but  for  the  time  being  she 
tried  to  thrust  the  ugliness  of  it  away  from  Constance's  life. 

"As  if  the  child  hadn't  enough  to  put  up  with  without 
that!" 

Nor  did  even  Mary  guess  how  dark  was  the  valley  of 
shadows  which  Constance  had  entered. 

A  watchful  woman  cannot  do  everything,  much  less  pre- 
vent the  inevitable  corroding  of  a  character.  For  the  last  two 
or  three  years  an  apathetic  selfishness  had  characterised  Dora 
Brent's  existence,  but  now  a  new  devil  stirred  in  her  as  the 
new  habit  increased.  About  this  time  she  began  to  develop 
blind,  senseless  rages,  splurges  of  fury  that  rose  like  dust- 
storms  in  a  desert.  Even  the  dog  Gussie  was  cuffed  occa- 
sionally, and  as  for  Constance,  she  fled  away  more  than  once 
and  hid  herself  in  her  room. 

The  everyday  details  of  life  began  to  betray  the  change 


138  THE  WHITE  GATE 

that  was  taking  •  place.  Dora  Brent  lay  abed  longer  in  the 
morning,  took  less  trouble  with  her  dress  and  with  the  dye- 
ing of  her  hair,  which  began  to  show  all  manner  of  queer 
shades.  A  frowsy  slovenliness  grew  more  noticeable,  a  loose- 
ness in  the  way  she  talked  and  in  her  habits  at  table.  She 
grew  fatter,  coarser,  a  swollen  caricature  of  her  old  self.  And 
Constance,  sitting  opposite  her  at  table,  watched  it  all  and 
wondered,  and  said  never  a  word. 

But  she  would  slip  away  on  her  lonely  walks  or  to  her 
bedroom,  and  brood  and  think,  and  question  the  vague  new 
disgust  that  seemed  to  be  oozing  up  over  the  surface  of  life. 
New  humiliations  were  stealing  upon  her,  and  she  began  to 
wonder  why  she  lived. 

Then  came  an  outburst  that  opened  her  eyes  to  everything. 
Returning,  tired,  from  a  ramble  towards  Windover,  and 
entering  the  garden  by  the  white  gate  in  the  laurel  hedge, 
she  heard  two  voices  that  brought  her  to  a  standstill.  One 
was  a  sort  of  shrill,  tearing  scream;  the  other  hard,  tense,  and 
level.  They  seemed  to  battle  together  like  two  birds  in  the 
air,  the  calmer,  harder  voice  trying  to  overcome  the  other. 

Constance  stood  stricken.  Was  that  her  mother's  voice 
screaming  out  strange,  coarse  words — words  that  she  guessed 
were  horrible,  though  she  did  not  understand  what  half  of 
them  meant?  Fear  of  that  voice  sent  her  back  through  the 
gate,  and  she  stood  listening  behind  the  hedge,  all  her  sensi- 
tive nature  jarred  into  discords. 

In  a  little  while  the  screaming  voice  weakened  and  dropped 
to  a  complaining  monotone.  Constance  could  still  hear  Mary 
speaking  as  though  reasoning  with  a  fractious  child,  and  she 
realised  suddenly  what  it  meant  to  her  having  this  good 
friend  in  the  house. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  139 

She  waited  some  while  longer  before  she  ventured  again 
through  the  white  gate  in  the  hedge,  and  as  she  was  crossing 
the  lawn  she  saw  Mary  come  out  into  the  veranda,  looking 
white  and  stern. 

She  caught  sight  of  Constance,  and  her  eyes  flashed  and 
softened.  Neither  of  them  spoke  for  the  moment,  but  Con- 
stance went  and  stood  very  close  to  the  woman,  feeling  that 
it  was  good  to  be  near  so  human  a  figure  when  the  dusk  was 
falling  about  the  house. 

"Mary,  what  was  it?" 

Her  eyes  were  all  dark  entreaty. 

"She's  had  a  kind  of  a  fit,  dear.  I've  got  her  to  bed,  and  I'll 
go  down  for  the  doctor." 

"But,  Mary " 

"Ssh,  she'll  be  falling  asleep.  She  flew  into  one  of  her  rages 
because  Jim  got  at  Gussie  in  the  garden,  and  she  took  a  stick 
and  rushed  out." 

"She  hasn't  hurt  Jim?" 

"There!  But  I  haven't  had  time  to  look.  Besides " 

Constance  broke  away  and  went  gliding  round  the  garden 
in  the  gathering  dusk.  "All  this  emotion  over  a  crow!"  She 
seemed  to  hear  people  asking  her  this  with  amused  pity,  but 
then  no  one  knew  how  very  few  things  she  had  had  to  love. 

"Jim!  Jim!" 

Her  voice  quivered.  • 

"Jim!" 

From  somewhere  behind  a  laurel  came  a  feeble  answering 
croak.  Constance  pushed  back  the  boughs  and,  peering  into 
the  darkness,  found  a  black  shape  lying  there  in  a  sort  of 
ruffled  disorder,  panting  with  widely  open  beak. 

"Jim!" 


i4o  THE  WHITE  GATE 

A  filmy  eye  looked  up  at.  her.  She  gathered  him  up  very 
gently  and  laid  him  in  the  hollow  of  her  skirt.  Tears  were 
falling  on  the  bird's  black  plumage,  and  she  went  back  blindly 
to  the  house. 

"Look,  Mary!" 

"Poor  old  chap!" 

She  saw  that  the  bird  was  dying. 

Garside  came  up  about  nine  o'clock  that  night,  spent  half 
an  hour  in  Mrs.  Brent's  bedroom,  and  came  down  with  a 
cynical  and  thoughtful  face.  He  paused  in  the  hall,  pulling 
on  his  gloves. 

"Is  Miss  Brent  at  home?" 

Mary  had  taken  part  in  the  scene  in  Dora  Brent's  room, 
and  she  and  Garside  had  come  to  a  speedy  understanding. 

"She's  not  up  to  seeing  anyone,  sir." 

"Just  so.  I'm  sorry.  By  the  way,  does  she  understand?" 

"Not  at  all,  sir,  I  think;  but  what's  to  keep  it  from  her?" 

Garside  nodded,  and  looked  sarcastic  and  grim  and  kind. 

"All  right.  We'll  do  what  we  can.  Do  you  think  you  could 
stop  her  getting  the  stuff?" 

"I've  tried." 

He  nodded  again,  as  though  recognising  the  inevitableness 
of  the  habit. 

"I'll  send  up  some  medicine  to-night." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"And  I  shall  be  up  to-morrow." 

He  went  away  angered  and  saddened,  knowing  by  expe- 
rience that  no  human  wisdom  would  be  of  any  use  in  such 
a  case. 

And  in  the  kitchen  Constance  sat  with  her  head  resting 
on  the  deal  table  beside  the  dead  body  of  the  bird. 


Chapter  Fourteen 


/I  T  HALF-PAST  SIX  on  an  autumn  morning  Skelton 
came  out  from  the  thatched  porch  into  the  garden  and  stood 
under  the  apple  trees,  where  the  misty  sunlight  powdered 
through  upon  the  grass. 

He  expanded  his  chest,  drawing  in  deep,  exultant  breaths, 
filling  himself  with  the  clean  fragrance  of  the  morning. 

The  day  promised  well — one  of  those  coy,  veiled  days  that 
come  gliding  in  and  making  a  mystery  of  their  beauty.  Sun- 
light and  white  mist  bathed  together,  and  yonder  in  the  low- 
lands of  the  park  the  old  oaks  and  thorns  seemed  to  be  pour- 
ing out  grey  smoke,  while  the  dew  on  the  hedges  twinkled 
and  trembled.  Here  and  there  in  the  autumn  borders  some 
flower  caught  a  sun  ray  and  gleamed  out  like  a  jewel,  glowing 
with  red  or  purple  light.  Wet  perfumes  rose  out  of  the  soil, 
and  the  freshness  was  the  breath  of  the  dawn. 

Skelton  lit  his  pipe,  that  first  pipe  that  is  like  no  other. 
He  strolled  down  the  path  under  the  apples,  leant  his  arms 
on  the  gate,  and  smoked  like  a  rustic  god  who  exults  in  the 
joy  of  the  morning. 

141 


142  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"It  is  something  to  be  alive.  And  once  I  thought  of  ending 
it!  That's  one  thing  a  man  has  to  learn — to  hang  on  through 
the  bad  times;  they  don't  last  for  ever." 

He  smiled,  and  there  was  infinite  understanding  in  his 
smile. 

"It  does  not  do  to  be  in  a  heardess  hurry.  That  is  what 
is  wrong  with  so  many  of  us.  We  trample  on  life,  instead 
of  walking  through  it  like  sane  creatures  who  realise  that  they 
can  only  go  through  it  once." 

The  hazy,  golden  light,  and  the  thoughts  that  came  to  him, 
softened  the  outlines  of  his  face.  His  eyes  had  the  inward 
glow  of  eyes  that  see  things  truly  and  see  them  well. 

Presently  he  left  the  gate  and  walked  back  up  the  path, 
looking  first  at  the  reddening  apples  and  then  at  the  thin 
blue  sky  above  the  deep  green  of  the  fir  woods.  A  faint 
shadow  seemed  to  drift  out  of  the  blue  of  that  northern  sky. 
Skelton's  face  grew  keener  again,  and  the  light  in  his  eyes 
increased. 

"It's  all  nonsense,  my  dear  fellow;  you  are  not  getting  any 
forrader.  Yes,  but  didn't  you  decide  not  to  rush  things?  And 
you  wanted  to  finish  'Jerry.' " 

He  re-entered  the  cottage,  and,  passing  into  his  workshop, 
stood  smoking  and  regarding  the  engine  that  was  bolted  to 
a  strong  wooden  stand.  The  sunlight  slanted  in  and  struck 
upon  the  bright  metal,  and  appeared  to  glance  off  into  Skel- 
ton's eyes.  He  had  christened  the  engine  "Jerry" — why,  he 
could  not  say;  the  name  had  come  into  his  head. 

"Well,  Jerry,  old  man,  how  are  you  feeling?  I  shall  expect 
you  to  pull  me  along  pretty  soon." 

He  touched  this  creature  of  his  creative  will,  passing  his 
hands  over  it  fondly,  for  there  were  two  years  of  brain-sweat, 


THE  WHITE  GATE  143 

and  joy  and  cursing,  impatience  and  dogged  scheming  in  that 
thing  of  steel.  The  molten  vision  had  consolidated  and  taken 
shape.  For  the  first  time,  three  days  ago  Skelton  had  seen  the 
creation  working  and  complete. 

"Somehow,  Jerry,  my  friend,  I  think  you  are  just  what 
the  good  commercial  people  have  been  asking  for.  You've  got 
your  rivals,  but  you  ought  to  eat  them  up.  Do  you  realise, 
you  beggar,  that  I  have  been  in  labour  over  you  for  two 
years?" 

He  sat  on  the  bench,  smoking,  and  talking  to  the  thing  as 
though  it  could  understand. 

"Power,  that's  what  you  stand  for — power.  What  most  of 
us  lust  for,  and  what  precious  few  of  us  get.  And,  by  the 
way,  Jerry,  you  are  getting  a  nice  little  patent  all  to  yourself 
—the  Skelton  Heavy  Oil  Engine,  S.H.O.E.  Shoe!  Well,  it 
never  struck  me  that  way  before.  And  who  knows  but  that 
there  may  be  a  Cinderella?" 

He  slipped  off  the  bench  and  walked  out  again  into  the 
garden,  challenged  by  a  sudden  restlessness.  His  brain  felt 
almost  too  alive,  too  keenly  conscious  of  the  multitudinous 
possibilities  of  life,  and  of  the  sardonic  eyes  of  the  goddess 
Success. 

"Power!" 

He  walked  up  and  down  under  the  apple  trees. 

"Oh,  damn,  why  have  you  let  this  month  go  by?  Haven't 
you  been  a  little  too  kindly  restrained?  And  Mrs.  Strange 
hasn't  seen  her  for  a  month.  Nor  have  I  heard  her  singing. 
Well,  I  wonder " 

He  went  and  leant  his  arms  on  the  gate  and  bit  hard  at 
his  pipe. 

"One  must  risk  something.  I  have  got  Jerry  going,  and  I 


i44  THE  WHITE  GATE 

have  given  her  a  month  to  get  over  that  Gascoyne  affair, 

whatever  it  may  have  been." 
His  eyes  flashed  out  suddenly. 

"I  can't  hang  back  any  longer.  No,  by  George,  and  I  won't." 
Down  the  lane  came  the  sound  of  Josh  singing  as  he 

marched  to  his  day's  work.  The  boy  had  developed  a  taste 

for  hymns,  and  he  bawled  them  with  infinite  gusto  and  with 

queer  emphasis  upon  certain  syllables: 

"Ar-bide  with  me,  fast  falls  the  e-ven-tide." 

This  most  unheavenly  voice  brought  Skelton  back  to  earth. 
He  watched  the  boy  come  slouching  down  the  lane,  feeling 
half  irritated,  and  yet  conscious  of  the  humour  of  the  thing. 

"The  dark-ness  dee-pens " 

"All  right,  Josh,  let  it.  You  seem  to  have  got  hold  of  the 
wrong  end  of  the  day." 

"Sir?" 

"I  dare  say  you'd  like  it  to  begin  at  six  in  the  evening." 

That  hymn,  bawled  forth  in  the  fair  face  of  the  autumn 
morning,  haunted  Skelton  most'  of  the  day,  getting  caught 
up  in  his  thoughts,  and  entangling  itself  in  the  rhythm  of 
his  emotions. 

It  was  not  till  he  got  deep  into  the  Roymer  fir  woods  that 
afternoon  that  the  hymn  ceased  running  through  his  head. 
The  song  of  the  trees,  primitive  and  mysterious  and  full  of 
a  wild,  heathen  beauty,  brooked  no  such  rivalry.  They  mur- 
mured the  old  forest  epics  of  heroic  things  that  had  happened 
ages  before  the  ape-man  hammered  flints  and  dwelt  in  caves. 

Skelton  met  the  sunset  as  he  climbed  Roymer  Heath.  The 
whole  west  was  aflame  as  with  the  tossing  of  a  thousand 


THE  WHITE  GATE  145 

torches,  and  the  smoke  of  their  burning  seemed  to  darken 
the  zenith.  In  the  "romances"  things  happen  as  they  never 
appear  to  happen  in  sober  life,  and  colours,  scents,  and  sounds 
are  richer  and  more  vital.  Skelton,  following  one  of  the  heath- 
land  paths,  met  Constance  Brent  like  a  figure  of  desire  rising 
out  of  the  red  heart  of  the  sunset.  She  seemed  to  float  upon 
him  suddenly  from  behind  a  black  mound  of  furze  bushes, 
a  problematical  figure  that  hovered  on  the  elemental  edge 
of  life. 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,  and  you  appear." 

She  stopped,  and  stood  looking  at  him  with  a  kind  of 
wonder,  as  though  he  had  flashed  a  naked  light  into  her  eyes 
when  she  was  expecting  nothing  but  veiled  and  impersonal 
vagueness. 

"How  do  you  do?  I  have  just  been  down  into  the  Rusper 
Woods." 

He  noticed  that  she  had  changed  in  the  month,  that  she 
looked  thinner,  and  sadder  about  the  eyes. 

"Do  you  know  the  pool  in  Rusper  Woods?" 

Her  eyes  still  wondered  at  him  and  at  the  glow  upon  his 
face. 

"You  mean  the  Whispering  Pool?" 

"Yes,  black  as  ink,  with  the  trees  all  round,  like  a  woodcut 
illustrating  an  Arthurian  tale." 

"Yes,  I  go  there  sometimes,  but  not  often." 

He  was  blocking  the  path,  and  she  made  a  little  tentative 
movement  to  go  on.  He  stood  aside  instantly. 

"May  I  walk  back  this  way?" 

"If  you  like." 

The  petals  had  opened  in  surprise;  now  they  were  closing 
again.  Skelton  found  in  her  the  same  suggestion  of  fear  and 


146  THE  WHITE  GATE 

of  veiled  distrust.  She  gave  him  quick  defensive  glances,  as 
though  desirous  of  keeping  some  dreaded  thing  at  a  distance. 

"I  don't  think  I  have  seen  a  finer  sunset  this  year." 

"No?" 

"You  know  how  we  little  people  take  all  the  phenomena 
of  Nature  to  ourselves,  making  a  sort  of  stage  effect  of  this 
sky  while  we  strut  about  below." 

"Do  we?" 

A  little  laughter  came  into  his  eyes. 

"Of  course  we  do.  I  have  been  having  a  triumphant  time, 
and  the  sun  is  just  hanging  out  his  flags  and  lighting  his 
bonfires  for  my  benefit.  What  have  you  been  doing  all  this 
month?" 


"Yes.  I  had  hoped  I  should  meet  you  again  at  the  StrangesV 
He  was  attacking,  as  the  male  spirit  must  attack  when  the 

feminine  spirit  does  not  behave  according  to  some  of  the 

theories  of  Bernard  Shaw.  The  white  petals  were  a  little 

tremulous,  but  they  remained  closed  like  the  ivory  gates  of 

a  walled  city.  She  would  not  open  herself  to  him.  Her  dread 

of  the  male  spirit  remained. 

"It  has  been  so  wet.  And  I  have  been  busy  at  home." 
Again  the  lover's  laughter  showed  in  his  eyes,  laughter 

that  sought  to  lighten  the  blows  of  his  compassion  upon  the 

gate  of  her  pride. 
"There  always  seems  such  a  lot  to  do  in  a  house — and  on 

Roymer  Heath,  too — where  there  should  be  no  such  things 

as  smuts!" 
She  remained  awkwardly  silent,  feeling  his  laughter  and 

misunderstanding  it. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  147 

"I  suppose  men  always  think  women  have  nothing  to  do 
but  to  go  round  with  dusters." 

"That  is  the  old  superstition.  Even  if  we  men  had  not 
realised  it  already,  we  should  have  been  made  to  realise  it  by 
the  aggressive  moderns.  Men  used  to  marry  housekeepers; 
now,  the  best  of  them  want  to  marry  comrades." 

"Perhaps." 

She  tried  to  gaze  into  the  distance,  and  to  persuade  herself 
she  did  not  feel  something  strangely  compelling  about  this 
man's  eyes. 

"You  haven't  been  up  yet  to  see  my  mathematician?" 

"Who?" 

"Bobby  Dent  at  the  'Three  Firs'." 

"No." 

"Why  don't  you  let  me  take  you  some  day?" 

She  began  to  feel  herself  in  a  corner,  and  became  possessed 
of  a  wild  desire  to  push  her  way  out.  That  other  afTair  had 
begun  like  this,  and  she  distrusted  the  male  spirit,  and  shrank 
from  its  imagined  coarseness. 

"I  have  my  mother  to  look  after.  And  I  am  afraid  that  I 
prefer  being  alone." 

"I  have  always  found  the  Rusper  Woods  and  that  black 
pool  rather  morbid." 

She  flashed  a  look  at  him,  and  there  was  something  like 
fear  in  her  eyes,  a  fear  that  he  had  read  her  inmost  thoughts. 

"I  don't  go  there  often.  Besides,  I  prefer  solitary  places." 

"So  do  I — sometimes.  But  a  crowd  can  be  more  fascinating, 
a  crowd  made  up  of  one  human  being.  Hallo,  here's  your 
house!" 

She  breathed  with  relief. 


148  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"It  is  my  time  for  reading  to  my  mother.  I  have  to  do  a 
great  deal  of  reading.  Good  night,  Mr.  Skelton." 

He  hesitated  on  the  edge  of  an  idea,  but  held  himself  back. 

"Good  night.  Why  not  come  and  see  Mrs.  Strange  some 
time?  She  has  felt  quite  hurt." 

"Has  she?  Perhaps  I  will  try.  Good  night." 

Skelton  walked  on  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  then  turned 
and  came  back  past  Furze  Cottage.  He  had  reached  the  end 
of  the  laurel  hedge,  when  he  heard  a  few  tentative  chords 
struck  upon  a  piano,  and  then  her  voice  singing  the  song 
that  haunted  more  than  any  other: 

"Drink  deep,  drink  deep  of  the  water,  Melisande." 

But  to-night  there  was  no  passion  in  her  voice.  She  sang 
as  though  she  stood  at  the  dark  end  of  the  world,  waiting 
resignedly  for  death  to  come.  There  was  a  hopelessness  about 
it  that  went  to  Skelton's  heart. 

And  somehow  that  song  and  her  singing  of  it  sent  Skel- 
ton's thoughts  down  to  the  black  Rusper  Woods  and  the 
Whispering  Pool  lying  there  so  strange  and  still.  He  knew  it 
with  its  surface  of  agate,  its  masses  of  willow-herb  that  seemed 
to  bleed  upon  the  bank,  and  the  bracken  making  a  green 
gloom  under  the  straight  trunks  of  the  encircling  trees.  One 
might  dream  of  finding  Merlin  there  sitting  bowed  beside 
the  water  and  staring  through  the  long  silence  into  the  magic 
mirror  of  the  pool;  but  it  was  not  a  place  that  should  lure  a 
young  woman  who  was  very  lonely,  one  who  sang  with  a 
voice  that  despaired. 


Chapter  Fifteen 


•j  KELT  ON  faced  about  and  walked  on  in  the  direction  of 
Roymer  village.  Constance  had  ended  her  singing,  and  he 
had  heard  two  voices  talking,  and  one  of  them  had  seemed 
quarrelsome,  with  a  jagged  edge  likely  to  cut  through  any 
sensitive  surface. 

"It  must  be  bad  enough  to  have  to  live  with  a  voice  like 
that,"  he  thought,  "especially  when  it  starts  sawing  wood  just 
after  you  have  been  singing." 

Dusk  was  deepening,  and  the  light  in  the  west  had  shrunk 
to  one  long  red  streak  above  the  black  outline  of  the  heath. 
Skelton  struck  into  the  main  road  and  held  on  for  Roymer 
village.  He  passed  the  church  standing  among  its  yews,  and 
turned  up  one  of  the  side  roads  off  the  Green  towards  a  red- 
brick house  that  stood  among  firs  and  larches.  As  he  pushed 
open  the  swing-gate  the  cheerful  chug  chug  of  a  motor  echoed 
from  the  stables,  and  Skelton,  walking  through  the  glare 
of  a  headlight,  found  Garside  in  the  act  of  getting  into  his 
little  runabout. 

"Hallo!  That  you,  Skelton?" 

149 


150  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"One  always  finds  a  doctor  out  or  going  out.  I  wanted  to 
talk  with  you." 

"Professional?" 

"No,  not  altogether." 

"I  have  to  run  over  to  Stradfield.  Get  in  and  come  with 
me.  I  can  lend  you  a  coat." 

"Thanks.  That  will  be  just  the  thing." 

Garside's  lad  was  sent  to  fetch  a  coat,  while  the  little  car 
jug-jugged  contentedly. 

"How's  'Jerry'?" 

"Alive  and  christened.  He  is  going  up  to  town  next  week 
to  Cuthbertson's  works.  The  fact  is  I  am  getting  back  to  a 
temper  when  I  want  more  of  the  particular  stuff  that  every- 
body is  scrambling  for." 

"Cash?" 

"Yes." 

"You  don't  mean " 

"Hard  up?  No,  not  that.  But  I  see  chances  of  expansion." 

"That  might  mean  feminine  influence — anything!" 

The  boy  came  back  with  the  coat,  and  Skelton  got  into  it 
and  climbed  into  the  car. 

"All  right?" 

"Right  away." 

They  swung  out  into  the  road  and  across  Roymer  Green, 
where  the  triangle  of  cottages  and  old  houses  made  a  pattern 
of  lights  in  the  brown  October  dusk.  There  was  raw  white 
mist  hanging  in  the  dip  at  the  bottom  of  the  village,  and 
Garside  had  to  slow  up,  for  the  glare  of  the  headlight  played 
upon  the  mist  and  it  was  impossible  to  see  a  yard  beyond 
the  nose  of  the  car. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  151 

"Sort  of  thing  to  make  you  swear  when  you  are  in  a 
hurry." 

They  climbed  out  of  the  dip  and  above  the  mist. 

"I  have  an  immense  respect  for  the  man  who  designed  this 
engine.  Efficiency,  that's  what  I  ask  for  in  life.  I  am  much 
too  irritable  now  to  stand  the  fussy  moods  of  some  fool  of 
a  horse." 

"Why  do  you  get  irritable?" 

"Try  doctoring  for  twenty  years,  and  you'll  know.  Well, 
what's  the  talk  to  be  about?" 

"The  Brents  up  at  Furze  Cottage." 

Garside  turned  an  alert  profile. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  you?" 

"You  happened  to  tell  me  you  were  attending  the  mother." 

"Well?" 

"And  since  I  happen  to  be  interested " 

Garside  swept  the  car  round  a  sharp  corner,  and  they  began 
to  glide  down  a  stiff  hill. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know,  old  man?" 

"Just  what   you   can   tell   me." 

"If  any  other  man  had  asked  me  that  question  I  might 
have  punched  him  on  the  jaw.  It's  awful  how  one  develops 
a  desire  to  hit  people." 

"I  know.  But  we're  in  partnership." 

"All  right.  The  mother's  a  drunkard  and  takes  chloral,  if 
that's  any  comfort  to  you." 

The  rapid  hum  of  the  engine  was  the  only  sound  for  the 
moment.  Both  men  were  sitting  squarely,  staring  straight 
along  the  road,  lit  up  by  the  glare  of  the  headlight. 

"What  a  damned  cynic  the  ordinary  fool  might  think  you, 
Garside." 


i52  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Well,  I  don't  splurge." 

"You  are  pretty  nearly  as  sorry  for  that  girl  as  I  am." 

"Are  you  sorry?" 

"Sorry  to  the  point  of  taking  all  risks." 

Garside  glanced  round  at  him  with  affectionate  grimness. 

"Go  easy,  old  man.  It  so  happens  that  I  know  all  about 
these  people.  Do  you  know  who  the  mother  was?" 

"No;  and  I  don't  know  that  I  care." 

"Twenty  or  more  years  ago  she  had  her  hunters  and  her 
shoot  in  Scotland.  Wakeman,  that  was  her  married  name — 
Wakeman.  I  happen  to  know  about  Wakeman.  He  was  one 
of  those  quiet,  decent  fellows  who  so  often  seem  to  be  got 
hold  of  by  the  wrong  woman,  though  she  came  of  good 
stock,  mind  you.  He  stood  it  for  some  time,  and  then  blew 
up  and  went  into  court.  I  believe  he  is  still  alive.  He  was  a 
generous  sort  of  beggar,  and  he  bought  the  woman  an  annuity 
after  he  had  divorced  her." 

The  car  took  a  steep  hill,  and  the  quickened  whir  of  the 
engine  smothered  conversation  for  the  moment.  The  pause 
was  dramatic  and  forcible,  as  though  Garside  were  letting 
the  hard  facts  sink  in. 

"Anything  more?" 

"I  should  think  that  would  be  enough  for  most  men.  I'm 
most  confoundedly  sorry  for  the  girl;  she's  much  too  good 
for  such  a  backstairs  life.  But  look  at  the  heritage " 

"Damn  your  theories  on  heredity." 

"Take  them  or  leave  them." 

"I  don't  believe  in  the  bugbear.  Human  nature  is  fine  in 
the  main.  It  only  wants  handling  properly,  given  a  decent 
chance." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say ?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  153 

"I  do." 

"Hallo,  here  we  are!  I  shan't  be  more  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  Just  you  sit  here  and  think  it  over." 

They  pulled  up  outside  a  farm-house,  and  Garside  switched 
off  the  engine.  Skelton  was  left  in  a  shadowy  place,  half  road, 
half  yard,  surrounded  by  the  vague  outlines  of  barns,  out- 
buildings, and  stacks.  The  broad  ray  of  the  headlight  clove 
the  darkness,  and  showed  him  nothing  more  interesting  than 
a  white  five-barred  gate.  Overhead  the  stars  were  shining, 
and  the  silence  was  unbroken  save  by  a  faint  and  muffled  mur- 
mur of  voices  from  the  house. 

Skelton  sat  staring  at  the  white  gate.  It  seemed  to  sym- 
bolise the  formal  and  conventional  barrier  that  closes  in  the 
thoughts  and  actions  of  the  ordinary  human  being.  There  is 
a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  fences  and  closed  gates,  but  it  is  as 
well  to  remember  that  gates  are  made  to  open. 

A  great  compassion  had  spread  through  Skelton's  being, 
a  tenderness  that  was  as  soft  as  the  darkness  about  him.  He 
felt  moved  to  curse  the  careful,  selfish  spirit  that  succeeds 
because  it  has  never  dared  to  take  generous  risks.  The  glare 
from  the  headlight  shone  steadily  upon  the  white  gate. 

"All  right,"  he  thought,  "I  see  you,  and  I'll  jump  over 
you." 

Garside  came  out,  and  loitered  a  moment  to  talk  to  some- 
one at  the  door.  Skelton  started  the  engine. 

They  were  settling  themselves  when  Skelton  said: 

"See  that  gate,  Garside?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  going  to  jump  over  it." 

"That's  the  verdict,  is  it?  But  there  are  some  gates  that  one 
can't  jump  over — at  least,  not  without " 


i54  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"I'm  not  that  sort  of  man.  I  don't  see  why  one  shouldn't 
set  out  grimly  to  design  a  successful  life,  just  as  one  designs 
an  engine.  It  is  all  a  matter  of  imagination,  sympathy,  under- 
standing— and  something  more." 

"And  something  more!" 

"Which  I,  for  one,  happen  to  have.  The  problem  is " 

"Yes,  just  that." 


Chapter  Sixteen 


L  N  THE  great  gallery  of  life,  when  a  man  comes  to  stand 
before  the  picture  of  the  one  woman  in  the  world  for  him, 
he  is  lost  in  a  kind  of  wonder  at  her  and  at  himself,  and  at 
all  that  mystery  of  tenderness  that  no  sensual  being  can  un- 
derstand. So  Skelton,  standing  before  his  mind-picture  of 
Constance  Brent,  asked  himself  why  she  stirred  in  him  a 
passion  that  no  other  woman  had  been  able  to  arouse. 

Beauty!  Yes,  she  had  it,  the  beauty  of  the  elf,  with  the  red, 
pained  lips  and  the  questioning  woodland  eyes.  There  was 
something  French  about  her,  an  essential  daintiness,  a  fas- 
tidiousness that  would  never  become  bourgeois  and  blousy. 
When,  with  a  man's  delight,  he  came  to  consider  it,  every- 
thing about  her  was  most  exquisitely  fashioned — the  small 
white  ears  half  hidden  under  the  dark  hair,  the  regular  teeth, 
the  hands,  with  their  refined,  impulsive  fingers,  the  feet  and 
ankles  that  -needed  no  hiding  under  a  skirt.  As  for  the  woman 
in  her,  it  had  all  that  luring  elusiveness  that  reacts  so  power- 
fully upon  a  man  bored  by  young  women  who  are  too  inter- 
estingly active  and  loquacious.  She  could  sit  still  and  say 

155 


156  THE  WHITE  GATE 

nothing,  and  make  him  wonder  what  was  passing  behind  her 
eyes.  The  protective  instinct  leapt  out  towards  her  and  held 
up  shield  and  sword,  warning  the  world  back.  He  knew  that 
she  was  no  fool,  that  the  charm  was  no  mere  virginal  bloom, 
for  once  or  twice  he  had  seen  her  soul  flash  out  understand- 
ingly  in  a  way  that  no  man  of  the  world  can  forget. 

Well,  how  should  he  begin?  He  was  so  conscious  of  her 
sensitiveness,  so  alive  to  her  fragility,  that,  big  man  that  he 
was,  he  felt  that  he  must  keep  his  strong  hands  behind  his 
back,  lest  some  too  heavy  touch  should  spoil  everything. 
There  were  so  many  ways  of  showing  a  woman  the  truth — 
the  boy's  way,  impetuous,  idealistic,  egotistical;  the  way  of 
the  man  of  five-and-thirty,  more  restrained,  more  unselfish, 
more  understanding,  with  just  a  twinkle  of  tender  fun  in  the 
eyeS.  Yet  he  was  too  much  in  earnest  to  feel  that  he  would 
muddle  things  by  being  self-conscious. 

Two  wet  days  followed  the  night  of  Skelton's  drive  with 
Garside.  He  spent  them  in  dismantling  "Jerry"  and  packing 
the  parts  for  their  journey  to  John  Cuthbertson's  works.  He 
did  a  great  deal  of  quiet  thinking,  and  lost  himself  so  com- 
pletely in  this  new  mystery  that  old  Mrs.  Gingham  came  near 
stumbling  upon  the  truth,  and  Josh  had  hours  of  glorious 
inactivity  in  the  tool-shed. 

Said  Mrs.  Gingham  to  her  neighbours: 

"Dunno  whether  he  be  in  love  with  that  there  engine  of 
'is,  or  whether  it  be  some  young  woman.  My!  if  Mr.  Skelton 
went  a-courtin',  I  reckon  the  girl  would  know  it!  Masterful? 
Bless  me!  I  should  'ave  'ad  no  more  strength  than  a  bit  of 
thistledown  with  a  man  like  that." 

"Do  'e  'ave  any  letters?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  157 

"Nothin'  that  looks  like  'avin'  crosses  inside  of  it,  so  fur 
as  I  can  tell." 

"Maybe  it's  the  engine.  I  'card  of  a  young  chap  as  was  so 
soft  on  'is  motor  bike  that  'is  girl  got  jealous  and  chucked 
'im." 

The  third  day  opened  clear  and  yellow,  with  a  backrush  of 
the  warmth  and  the  scents  of  summer.  The  very  beauty  of  it 
made  Skelton  feel  restless.  In  the  morning  he  saw  the  heavy 
crate  that  held  "Jerry"  go  off  to  the  station  in  one  of  Mr. 
Jackman's  coal  carts,  and  when  "Jerry"  had  gone  the  work- 
shop seemed  very  empty  and  the  wooden  stand  like  an  empty 
cradle.  In  three  days'  time  he  would  be  following  "Jerry"  to 
town,  to  assemble  all  the  parts  and  show  John  Cuthbertson 
what  the  gentleman  was  like. 

For  the  moment  the  soul  in  him  longed  to  rush  out  and  to 
accomplish  self-expression.  He  made  a  pretended  lunch,  and 
told  himself  that  he  would  go  out  for  a  long  ramble  and  do 
a  lot  more  thinking.  There  were  the  Rusper  Woods.  He  would 
walk  down  there  and  sit  by  the  Whispering  Pool,  feel  her 
presence  there,  and  try  to  see  pictures  in  the  water.  He  might 
get  some  intuitive  glimpse  of  how  things  ought  to  happen. 

A  wind  had  risen — an  adventurous  wind  that  whipped  the 
clouds  across  the  deep  blue  sky  and  let  floods  of  sunlight 
loose  upon  the  brown  splendour  of  the  deciduous  woods.  Skel- 
ton went  over  Roymer  Heath,  with  the  white  house  up 
yonder  showing  amid  the  firs  and  gorse.  Below,  and  to  the 
south-west,  stretched  the  Rusper  Woods,  black,  thousand- 
spired,  mysterious,  smitten  by  the  sunlight  or  darkened  by 
cloud  shadows. 

The  line  of  straight  trunks  rose  and  rose  as  he  descended 


158  THE  WHITE  GATE 

the  heath,  till  their  tall  grandeur,  and  the  solemn  gloom 
behind  them,  stood  for  the  very  gateway  of  romance.  A  path 
curled  in  and  lost  itself  amid  the  multitude  of  tree-trunks, 
and  the  white  clouds  galloped  overhead.  But,  though  the 
wind  moved  in  the  tree-tops,  the  wood  below  was  strangely 
still,  and  the  low,  constant  murmur  of  the  wind  above  made 
the  silence  below  seem  more  profound. 

Skelton  stopped  $ow  and  again  and  looked  along  some 
mysterious  alley-way  where  the  sunlight  slanted  in,  touching 
the  brown  carpet  of  pine  needles  and  making  a  golden  haze 
about  the  trunks.  What  a  corner  of  the  world  for  adventurous 
happenings,  for  a  clashing  together  of  two  charging,  mail- 
clad  figures,  while  a  white-faced  girl  stood  in  the  shadows 
and  shivered!  Of  course  it  was  the  bounden  and  romantic  duty 
of  the  right  man  to  win,  to  catch  up  the  girl  on  to  his  great 
horse  and  ride  off  into  a  lover's  twilight. 

Presently  the  trees  thinned  before  him,  and  beyond  the 
yellowing  bracken  Skelton  saw  the  sheen  of  the  Whispering 
Pool.  It  lay  still  and  calm,  without  a  ripple,  blue  sky  and 
white  clouds  and  green  tree-tops  reflected  in  it.  The  purple  of 
the  willow-herb  was  gone,  and  nothing  but  the  silky  seed 
threads  remained. 

On  one  side  of  the  pool  a  fir  tree  had  fallen,  and  lay  hidden 
by  the  bracken  that  grew  in  places  some  five  feet  high,  and 
Skelton,  trampling  through  the  bracken,  sat  down  on  the 
fallen  trunk.  This  woodland  seat  was  not  his  alone,  for  he 
could  tell  by  the  track  through  the  bracken  that  someone 
else  had  been  to  and  fro.  The  inevitable  pipe  came  out,  to 
add  something  to  the  scent  of  the  fern,  the  fern  whose  many 
tints  gave  the  impression  of  a  number  of  different  yellow 


THE  WHITE  GATE  159 

lights  falling  upon  the  tall  fronds.  It  was  a  forest  within  a 
forest,  and  down  the  trampled  track  Skelton  had  a  view  of 
the  pool. 

Perhaps  he  had  been  there  half  an  hour,  when  Constance 
Brent  came  along  the  path  and  out  into  the  one  patch  of 
sunlight  that  lay  beside  the  pool.  It  was  a  coincidence  that 
Skelton  had  not  counted  on;  moreover,  he  did  not  see  her  at 
first,  nor  she  him,  for  the  bracken  was  too  tall.  She  just  came 
out  of  the  gloom  of  the  woods  like  a  bird  from  nowhere,  and 
stood  there  in  that  piece  of  sunlight,  staring  at  the  pool.  She 
was  very  pale,  with  a  queer,  far-away  look  in  her  eyes  as 
though  she  were  trying  to  see  below  the  surface  of  things,  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  whence  and  whither. 

She  moved  forward  and  went  straight  to  the  water's  edge, 
and  it  was  then  that  Skelton  saw  her.  She  was  bending  for- 
ward and  looking  down  as  at  her  own  reflection  in  the  water, 
her  hands  stretched  out  a  little,  with  the  palms  upward.  Skel- 
ton sat  as  still  as  a  hunter  who  has  been  lying  in  ambush  wait- 
ing for  a  panther  to  come  down  to  the  water  to  drink. 

She  remained  poised  there  a  moment,  and  the  poise  sug- 
gested neither  curiosity  nor  thought,  but  rather  an  attitude 
of  hesitation — a  tragic  faltering  between  two  alternatives.  In 
a  little  while  she  began  to  walk  slowly  round  the  pool,  look- 
ing at  it  slantwise  as  she  walked,  with  a  kind  of  brooding 
wonder. 

"Drink  deep,  drink  deep  of  the  water,  Melisande." 

When  she  came  opposite  to  him  Skelton  saw  her  lips  move 
as  though  she  were  whispering  the  words  of  the  song.  He 
could  see  her  eyes,  and  the  look  in  them  made  him  draw  his 
knees  up  ready  to  spring  up  and  forward.  She  was  still  star- 


160  THE  WHITE  GATE 

ing  at  the  pool,  and  did  not  see  the  figure  half  hidden  by 
the  bracken. 

Her  hands  came  up  and  made  quaint,  downward  soothing 
passes  over  her  bosom.  She  smiled  suddenly  at  the  water,  the 
unforgettable  smile  of  one  whose  thoughts  reach  out  towards 
oblivion.  Skelton  held  his  breath.  The  self  in  him  that  had 
suffered  even  to  the  point  of  a  passionate  desire  for  self-de- 
struction saw  and  understood. 

"Good  God,  is  it  as  bad  as  that!" 


Chapter  Seventeen 


•J  KELT  ON  saw  Constance  Brent  kneel  down  and  dip  her 
hands  into  the  water  and  move  them  slowly  to  and  fro,  as 
though  playing  with  the  substance  of  this  thing  that  was 
able  to  give  her  forgetfulness.  Sometimes  she  withdrew  her 
hands  and  watched  the  drops  fall  back  into  the  water,  making 
minute,  silvery  ripples. 

Skelton's  pipe  had  gone  out,  and  he  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
his  eyes  remaining  fixed  upon  the  girl  kneeling  by  the  pool. 
He  could  imagine  her  angry  when  she  discovered  that  she 
was  being  watched,  but  some  deep  instinct  was  urging  him 
to  tempt  her  anger,  to  outface  it,  to  carry  her  forcibly  away 
from  the  refuge  of  her  shy  distrust.  He  saw  all  these  things 
clearly  for  the  moment  in  the  strong  and  generous  light  of 
his  own  compassion. 

Leaving  the  dead  tree,  he  walked  slowly  through  the  bracken 
down  to  the  pool,  and  he  was  still  wading  through  the  fern 
when  Constance  Brent  looked  up  and  saw  him.  She  was  on 
her  feet  almost  instantly,  and  gazing  across  the  water  at  him 
with  startled  eyes.  There  are  times  when  the  garment  of  the 

161 


162  THE  WHITE  GATE 

flesh  wears  very  thin,  letting  the  outlines  of  the  soul  show 
through,  and  Constance  Brent  felt  herself  standing  before 
this  man  like  some  spiritual  Eve  in  all  the  tragic  nakedness  of 
her  despair. 

He  was  smiling  and  raising  his  old  slouch  hat  to  her,  and 
for  some  seconds  they  looked  at  each  other  across  the  pool. 
She  seemed  to  read  the  truth  in  his  eyes,  that  the  water  of 
the  pool  had  been  symbolical  of  death,  and  that  she  had  been 
dabbling  her  hands  in  it,  so  passionately  unhappy  that  she 
had  been  seized  by  a  sudden  hunger  for  oblivion. 

She  felt  discomfited,  unable  to  think  or  to  act,  yet  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  of  defiance  and  resentment.  Skelton  was 
walking  round  the  pool,  and  she  stood  there  helplessly  while 
this  new  force  swung  round  to  her,  and  all  the  laws  of  attrac- 
tion and  repulsion  contended  chaotically  within  her  body. 

She  wanted  to  turn  and  run,  to  break  free,  to  escape  from 
the  sense  of  inevitableness,  from  the  instinct  that  told  her  that 
he  had  seen  her  soul  in  its  nakedness. 

"I  suppose  Melisande's  pool  was  much  like  this." 

He  was  within  five  paces  of  her,  and  her  eyes  felt  compelled 
to  look  at  his.  They  were  still  smiling,  but  behind  the  smile 
she  imagined  something  intense  and  stern,  something  that 
watched  her  and  read  her  very  thoughts. 

"I  don't  know." 

"As  for  drinking  deep,  I  think  the  water  would  be  rather 
brackish!" 

His  voice  was  very  quiet  and  kind. 

"I  happened  to  be  sitting  over  there  on  that  dead  tree." 

Somehow  she  knew  that  she  had  betrayed  herself,  and  that 
he  was  determined  to  make  her  realise  that  he  had  witnessed 


THE  WHITE  GATE  163 

the  betrayal.  The  blood  rushed  to  her  face  and  brain.  She  felt 
in  a  whirl,  giddy,  unable  to  think. 

"I  came  out.  It  was  so  beautiful  after  the  rain." 

"And  I  startled  you  a  little?  We  can't  help  having  chosen 
the  same  refuge.  I  am  going  to  have  the  courage  to  talk  to, 
you,  and  to  make  you  talk  to  me." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  understand." 

"Let's  try  talking,  anyway." 

She  realised  that  there  was  no  barrier  between  them,  and 
that  they  were  standing  there  face  to  face  in  the  thick  of  the 
fir  woods,  and  that  Skelton  was  determined  that  it  should  be 
so.  A  big  and  compassionate  masterfulness  overshadowed  her. 
He  was  so  much  cleverer  than  she  was,  so  much  bolder,  so 
much  quicker  in  his  fencing.  Besides,  all  the  humiliation  was 
on  her  side,  all  the  dread  of  the  truth  that  he  had  guessed,  all 
the  resentment  against  him  for  guessing  it. 

"One  starves,  you  know,  if  one  never  talks." 

"Oh!" 

"And  I  suppose  this  pool  has  a  peculiar  fascination  for  us 
both." 

"I  don't  know.  It  may  have." 

"For  me  it  calls  up  a  song;  for  you  it  is  a  mirror — a  dark 
glass  in  which  you  see  your  own  troubles  floating." 

She  could  not  guard  the  level  look  he  gave  her,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  fear  and  anger. 

"My  own  troubles!  I  don't  know  why — you " 

"Don't  grudge  it  me." 

"What  should  I  grudge  you?" 

"If  I  called  it  comradeship  I  should  not  be  telling  all  the 
truth." 

She  winced,  and  her  face  looked  pained,  as  though  he 


164  THE  WHITE  GATE 

had  touched  upon  some  sore  memory.  Her  hands  hung 
limply.  Her  one  instinct  was  to  keep  him  away,  to  hold  him 
at  a  distance,  for  she  was  possessed  by  the  idea  that  the  rough 
male  spirit  had  many  methods  of  attack. 

"Mr.  Skelton,  I  don't  think  I  understand." 

"Let  me  remedy  it." 

"But  I  don't  know  you.  I  don't " 

He  put  his  hands  into  the  side  pockets  of  his  coat,  and 
this  most  trivial  act  had  a  significant  meaning  for  them  both. 

"In  the  first  place,  you  are  afraid  of  me." 

Her  eyes  flashed  to  his,  and  her  colour  rose. 

"You  mean " 

"Come,  let's  get  it  over,  and  all  the  absurd  discomfort  of 
the  thing.  It's  because  I  don't  want  to  worry  you  that  I  am 
talking  rather  boldly.  It's  best  in  the  end.  You  are  afraid  of 
me.  Why?" 

"I  don't  see  that  it  matters  whether " 

"It  matters  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world." 

She  half  turned  away  from  him,  and  her  lips  quivered. 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  wouldn't " 

"Pester  you?" 

"I  didn't  say  that.  But  you  don't  know " 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  don't  take  life  so  bitterly.  You  say  you 
don't  know  me,  and  you  think  that  a  man  may  be  any  sort 
of  cad.  If  you  believe  that  I  am  just  a  light-hearted  fool,  who 
does  not  care  twopence  whether  he  gives  you  pain  or  not,  look 
at  me  squarely  and  say  so.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  you  are 
wrong." 

His  voice  thrilled  her,  and  arrested  every  movement.  There 
was  a  new  note  in  it,  something  that  she  had  never  heard 


THE  WHITE  GATE  165 

in  life  before,  and  yet  a  something  that  she  had  heard  in 
dreams. 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  say  that." 

"We  are  just  talking  to  know  each  other,  you  and  I." 

"But  it  seems  so  strange!" 

"What  seems  strange?" 

"That  we  should  be  talking  -here,  and " 

"That  you  hated  me  for  being  here.  I  had  to  risk  that;  one 
has  to  begin  somewhere.  Now,  to-day  you  are  to  think  of  me 
as  a  sort  of  brother,  just  a  fellow  you  can  trust.  And  I  am 
going  to  walk  back  with  you,  and  you  are  going  to  let  me 
be  a  regular  chatterbox." 

She  looked  up  and  caught  the  teasing  tenderness  in  his  eyes, 
and  for  the  first  time  hers  answered  them. 

"I  don't  think  I  could  stop  you  talking." 

"That's  what  Garside  says.  But  I  want  an  echo — and  some- 
thing more  than  an  echo." 

"Yes?" 

They  walked  round  the  pool  and  through  the  bracken  to 
where  the  path  led  back  towards  Roymer  Heath.  Skelton 
kept  a  little  apart  from  her,  his  hands  still  in  his  pockets, 
his  whole  figure  touched  with  a  comforting  nonchalance  that 
suggested  tranquillity  and  self-restraint.  Constance's  eyes 
glanced  at  him  tentatively.  Was  she  afraid  of  him?  Perhaps 
in  a  different  way,  for  she  felt  the  strong  pressure  of  his  man- 
hood behind  that  quiet  self-confidence. 

"I  am  going  to  talk  about  myself." 

"You  mean  to  make  it  a  kind  of  bargain!" 

"Are  we  a  couple  of  savages?  You  know  how  they  trade. 
I'll  put  my  beads  and  gold  dust  and  leopard  skins  on  the 
ground." 


i66  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Yes?" 

"And  you  must  see  what  you  can  make  of  it." 

As  he  talked  to  her,  giving  her  half  grim  and  half  whimsi- 
cal pictures  of  his  own  life,  she  let  her  glances  wander  along 
the  black  alleys  of  the  wood,  feeling  the  strangeness  and  the 
mystery  of  the  place  to  be  part  of  the  strangeness  of  this  new 
experience.  Yet  she  could  not  escape  from  the  memories  young 
Herbert  Gascoyne  had  left  her,  and,  however  different  this 
other  man  might  be,  she  felt  ready  to  shrink  back  from  the  in- 
timacy he  seemed  determined  to  offer  her.  Moreover,  so  far 
as  she  was  a  judge  of  life,  the  past  made  everything  so  impos- 
sible; yet  how  was  she  to  make  him  understand? 

They  had  left  the  fir  woods,  and  were  half-way  across  the 
heath  before  Skelton  developed  the  most  significant  part  of 
his  confession.  He  had  purposely  kept  his  eyes  from  her  face, 
as  though  realising  that  the  veil  that  covered  her  pride  was 
very  thin.  But  as  he  touched  upon  that  great  overthrow  of 
his  manhood,  when  he  had  come  so  near  to  taking  his  own 
life,  he  glanced  occasionally  at  her  face,  to  watch  how  the 
words  stirred  the  sensitive  waters  of  her  consciousness. 

"We  all  have  our  rough  times.  You  may  be  pretty  sure  that 
we  understand  life  better  when  we  have  suffered." 

Yet  the  significance  of  the  thing  he  had  confessed  to  her 
challenged  so  forcibly  her  experience  of  an  hour  ago  that 
she  felt  dazed  by  it  as  by  an  intense  white  light.  Something 
cried  out  in  her,  "Why  have  you  told  me  this?  It  is  not  fair, 
this  trying  to  bargain." 

She  pressed  her  lips  firmly  together,  and  resisted  the  appeal. 
He  was  trying  to  make  her  uncover  her  soul  to  him,  tempt- 
ing her  to  a  kind  of  spiritual  wantonness,  and  her  sensitive 


THE  WHITE  GATE  167 

pride  revolted.  She  looked  eagerly  for  the  chimneys  of  Furze 
Cottage,  and  saw  them  at  no  great  distance  above  the  gorse. 

"You  must  have  suffered  a  great  deal." 

She  uttered  the  words  almost  primly,  and  Skelton's  eyes, 
searching  her  face,  found  it  hard  and  white  and  unrespon- 
sive. Meeting  his  eyes  for  the  moment,  the  seeing  look  in 
them  confused  her. 

"My  leopard  skins  and  gold  dust  are  not  sufficient?" 

"But  I  never  asked  you " 

"What  can  I  add  to  the  pile?" 

She  felt  bewildered  and  hardly  able  to  think. 

"It  isn't  fair " 

"Do  you  look  on  it  as  nothing  but  a  bargain?" 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  the  white  house  that  was  separated 
from  them  by  some  hundred  yards  of  red-brown  heather. 
And,  though  there  was  silence  everywhere,  she  felt  in  the 
midst  of  clamour,  importuned  by  passionate  voices,  pursued 
by  a  mob  of  thoughts.  She  could  have  put  her  hands  over  her 
ears  and  run. 

"I  can't  talk  to  you  like  that." 

She  wondered  what  he  would  say,  what  he  was  thinking. 

"Try." 

"I  can't." 

"Is  it  so  hard  for  you  to  realise  what  it  means  to  me?" 

"But  why  should  it  mean  anything?" 

"Because  it  does." 

She  stopped  as  though  fascinated,  and  stood  looking  into 
his  eyes.  Her  lips  quivered,  and  then  began  to  speak: 

"I  can't  talk  to  you  as  you  have  talked  to  me.  I  can't — and 
you  don't  understand." 

"Try  me.  I  may  "understand  more  than  you  imagine." 


168  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Oh,  I  can't.  It's  too— too  sordid." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  kind  of  hopelessness,  and  sud- 
denly he  saw  the  tears  swimming  into  her  eyes.  All  his  com- 
passionate reasonableness  lost  itself  in  a  rush  of  feeling.  He 
tried  to  take  her  hands. 

But  she  flung  away,  humiliated  and  dismayed. 

"Don't — don't!  Please  let  me  go  on  alone." 

"My  dear,  you  are  too  much  alone.  It  is  just  because " 

"Don't-oh,  don't!" 

She  turned  and  ran  towards  the  white  gate  in  the  laurel 
hedge,  leaving  him  to  wonder  whether  he  had  blundered. 


ARY  was  roused  from  sleep  by  the  sound  of  someone 
opening  her  bedroom  door.  She  left  the  curtains  undrawn  at 
night  so  that  she  might  wake  easily  in  the  morning,  for  Dora 
Brent,  who  lay  abed  till  ten,  was  in  the  worst  of  tempers 
if  her  early  morning  tea  arrived  ten  minutes  late. 

A  full  moon  was  shining,  and  Mary  saw  a  figure  standing 
between  her  bed  and  the  window.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  girl 
in  a  white  nightdress,  her  hair  loose  upon  her  shoulders,  her 
face  turned  towards  the  moonlight. 

Mary  sat  up  in  bed.  "Miss  Connie,  what  is  it?" 

She  did  not  turn,  nor  did  she  seem  to  hear,  but  stood  there 
motionless  where  the  moonlight  slanted  in. 

"I  can't  get  away — I  can't  get  away!" 

She  uttered  the  words  in  a  queer,  whispering  monotone, 
and,  facing  round  suddenly,  walked  back  towards  the  door. 

Not  till  then  did  Mary  realise  that  Constance  was  walking 
in  her  sleep.  She  slipped  out  of  bed,  thrust  her  feet  into  a 
pair  of  slippers,  and,  putting  on  a  dressing-gown,  followed 
the  white  figure  out  into  the  passage.  Constance  was  standing 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  as  though  about  to  descend  them. 

169 


i;o  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Oh,  my  dear,  come  back!" 

Mary  spoke  the  words  more  to  herself  than  to  the  girl. 
Her  head  was  full  of  the  tales  she  had  heard  of  sleep-walkers 
dying  of  fright  from  the  shock  of  being  awakened  suddenly. 
She  held  back  and  watched  to  see  what  Constance  would  do. 

"Dear  Lord,  send  her  back  to  bed!" 

But  the  dream-self  decided  otherwise.  Constance  began  to 
descend  the  stairs,  one  hand  gliding  down  the  rail,  her  figure 
growing  dim  as  it  sank  away  into  the  darkness  of  the  hall. 
Mary  followed  her,  shuddering  as  the  stairs  creaked.  She  saw 
the  dim  figure  glide  across  the  hall  and  enter  the  drawing- 
room,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  she  waited  in  the  hall,  think- 
ing that  Constance  might  return. 

Then  she  heard  the  click  of  the  catch  that  fastened  the 
French  window. 

"Good  gracious!  If  she  isn't  going  out  in  her  night-dress!" 

Mary  found  her  standing  at  the  top  of  the  short  flight  of 
steps  that  led  from  the  veranda  into  the  garden.  It  was  a  raw 
and  rather  misty  night,  but  with  no  wind  moving.  Beyond 
the  black  line  of  the  laurel  hedge  Roymer  Heath  showed 
vague  and  dim  and  ghostly. 

Mary  paused  just  within  the  window  and  shivered. 

"She'll  catch  her  death  of  cold.  I'd  wake  her,  only  I'm 
afraid." 

She  saw  Constance  stretch  out  her  hands  and  feel  the 
air  like  one  who  is  blind. 

"I  can't  get  away.  It's  the  Whispering  Pool,  and  the  water's 
so  black." 

She  went  down  the  steps,  murmuring  something  to  her- 
self. Mary  stood  spellbound. 

"She'll  tread  on  the  gravel,  and  it  will  wake  her." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  171 

But  it  did  not  wake  her,  and  she  walked  barefooted  across 
the  grass,  the  moonlight  shining  upon  her  white  night-gear 
and  making  a  mist  about  her  hair.  Mary  followed  her,  abso- 
lutely puzzled  as  to  what  to  do.  This  dream  pilgrimage  might 
carry  her  half  across  Roymer  Heath. 

"I'll  have  to  wake  her  if " 

Constance  turned  abruptly  and  walked  straight  back  to- 
wards the  house.  Her  eyes  looked  at  Mary,  but  they  were 
unseeing  eyes,  large  and  round  and  empty.  To  be  looked  at 
like  that  and  yet  not  to  be  seen  made  Mary  wince.  It  was  so 
eerie,  so  unhuman,  so  much  like  being  stared  at  by  a  ghost. 

Constance  paused  quite  close  to  her,  and  Mary  saw  her  lips 
move. 

"It's  horrible.  I  can't  get  away  from  the  black  water.  No 
one  ever  says,  'Dear,  I  love  you.' " 

The  same  dream  trick  that  had  brought  her  out  of  bed  and 
sent  her  wandering  barefooted  over  the  wet  grass  drew  her 
back  towards  the  house.  She  re-entered  it  by  the  window, 
passed  through  the  drawing-room  and  hall,  and  up  the  stairs 
to  her  own  room.  Mary,  still  following,  saw  her  close  the 
door.  i 

"My  dear,  you've  given  me  a  scaring!" 

She  stood  for  a  while,  listening. 

"I'll  get  the  key  another  night  and  lock  you  in.  But  you 
mustn't  know,  if  I  can  help  it.  Poor  soul,  you're  not  happy." 

This  night  adventure  and  certain  other  incidents  that  fol- 
lowed it  at  Furze  Cottage  sent  Mary  down  to  Roymer  to  the 
doctor's  house  among  the  larches.  She  caught  Garside  making 
up  the  physic  for  the  day,  and  the  surgery  was  empty. 

"I've  got  ten  minutes,  doctor.  The  dinner's  cold,  all  but 


172  THE  WHITE  GATE 

the  soup.  And  I  said  as  how  Dutton  had  forgotten  to  send 
the  coffee,  and  I'd  fetch  it." 

Garside  held  his  hands  under  the  tap,  and  dried  them  on 
the  roller-towel  behind  the  door. 

"Another  breakdown  ? " 

"It's  about  Miss  Constance." 

His  face  lost  its  look  of  cynical  tolerance. 

"Oh!  Come  inside  and  sit  down.  Now  let's  hear  all  about 
it." 

Mary  told  her  tale,  her  sympathetic  common  sense  giving  it 
a  vividness  that  kept  Garside  silent.  As  a  rule  he  did  not 
allow  a  woman  to  rush  into  a  characteristic  monologue;  he 
was  too  busy  to  listen  to  useless  and  egotistical  verbosity,  and 
putting  the  patient  in  the  witness-box,  held  a  cross-examina- 
tion, relentlessly  smothering  all  attempts  at  oratory. 

"Well,  go  on.  What's  your  view?" 

"It's  the  life,  sir,  that's  just  breaking  her  heart.  I've  noticed 
it  for  months  now.  I've  told  you  she  walks  in  her  sleep,  and 
I've  caught  her  crying,  crying  just  like  one  who's  dead  weak 
after  a  long  illness.  You  know  how  they  cry,  doctor,  for  no 
reason  at  all,  but  just  because  they're  so  miserably  weak." 

Garside  stood  with  his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  looking 
down  into  Mary's  steadfast,  upturned  face.  She  was  one  of  the 
exceptions  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  one  of  the  few  women 
a  man  can  talk  to  as  though  she  were  a  man. 

"The  mother  is  responsible." 

"To  be  sure,  doctor.  And  everything's  been  against  her.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  know,  doctor,  about " 

"Mrs.  Brent's  history?" 

"Yes." 

They  exchanged  significant  glances. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  173 

"I  happen  to  know  about  that.  Does  she  know?" 

"Everything.  It's  enough  to  cloud  any  girl,  to  be  outside  of 
life,  so  to  speak.  And  then  this  summer — I  don't  know 
whether  I  ought  to  tell  you,  doctor." 

"You  are  a  woman  of  sense." 

"Of  course  I  must  tell  you.  It  was  that  there  young  Mr. 
Gascoyne.  He  came  hanging  about  after  her." 

Anger  came  into  her  voice  as  she  told  Garside  of  the  affair, 
and  the  man's  swarthy  face  seemed  to  grow  swarthier.  One 
large  fist  clenched  itself  in  a  trouser  pocket.  His  nostrils  di- 
lated. 

"The  young  cad!  The  thing  shocked  her  badly?" 

"I  had  to  put  her  to  sleep  with  me,  doctor;  she  was  no 
more  than  a  child  that  way.  I  could  have  gone  and — well, 
what  can  a  woman  do?  But  it's  all  along  with  the  other 
things.  What's  she  got  to  live  for  up  there?  That's  how  I 
look  at  it." 

Garside's  eyes  had  a  glitter  in  them. 

"I  think  you  have  summed  up  the  case  pretty  well.  Even 
a  plant  must  have  something  to  live  on.  And  Mrs.  Brent?" 

"She's  getting  worse,  doctor." 

"Just  so." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  staring  out  of  the  window  at  a 
row  of  birch  trees  whose  yellow  leaves  were  fluttering  and 
falling  in  a  rush  of  wind.  Some  things  seemed  as  inevitable 
as  the  fall  of  the  leaf,  and  in  this  inevitableness  lay  their 
sadness. 

"I'll  come  up  to-morrow.  There  are  cases  where  people 
bleed  to  death  without  having  an  artery  touched." 

"It's  the  spirit  that's  bleeding  away,  sir." 

"Yes,  the  blood  of  life,  the  will  to  live." 


174  THE  WHITE  GATE 

When  Mary  had  gone  Garside  went  back  into  the  surgery 
and  resumed  the  making  up  of  the  day's  medicine.  There 
were  two  parts  of  him  in  action  at  the  same  moment — the 
mind  that  measured  and  the  mind  that  thought.  Of  im- 
mense vitality,  the  very  strength  of  his  passions  sometimes 
broke  through  his  self-restraint.  The  waste-paper  basket  got 
in  his  way  as  he  stood  to  take  a  bottle  down  from  one  of  the 
corner  shelves,  and  he  put  his  foot  through  the  thing  as 
though  violence  was  a  means  of  self-expression. 

"What  a  damned  lot  of  wickerwork  there  is  in  the  world! 
If  one  could  only  put  one's  foot  through  some  of  these  prob- 
lems. There  ought  to  be  a  quiet  corner  in  every  town  where 
you  can  take  a  cad  and  thrash  him  without  anybody  asking 
questions.  If  it  weren't  for  the  old  women " 

He  set  the  botde  down  very  gently,  and  there  was  more 
violence  in  that  self-restraint  than  if  he  had  banged  it  upon 
the  table. 

"What  the  devil  is  one  to  do  in  such  a  case?  The  chances 
are  that  the  girl  will  simply  wilt  away  into  a  hopeless  neu- 
rotic." 

He  slammed  a  label  on  the  medicine  botde. 

"What  about  Skelton?  He'll  be  back  from  town  in  three 
days.  It  might  be  a  solution.  He'd  have  to  risk  it" 

Garside's  thoughts  had  "gone  to  town,"  and  in  that  vague 
and  completely  ugly  district  north  of  King's  Cross  Station, 
and  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Brewery  Road,  stood 
the  red-brick  buildings  of  John  Cuthbertson's  engineering 
works.  They  straggled  along  a  cobbled  side  street,  where 
the  lorries  and  vans  made  a  most  abominable  clattering,  and 
the  smuts  came  down  on  nothing  but  brick  and  slate  and 
stone.  Up  above  two  or  three  little  black  pipes  puffed  steam 


THE  WHITE  GATE  175 

all  day,  and  there  was  the  constant  glugging  of  gas-engines 
and  the  snarling  of  machinery  in  action. 

Away  from  the  workshops  and  the  great  rooms  where  the 
mechanics  laboured  stood  an  iron-roofed  building,  set  apart 
in  a  quiet  corner  at  a  litde  distance  from  all  the  mere  me- 
chanical unrest.  Here  there  was  a  sense  of  calm,  purposeful 
cerebration.  It  was  the  brain  that  worked  tranquilly,  undis- 
turbed by  the  hands  that  wielded  hammers  and  the  machines 
that  bored  and  ripped  and  ground,  creatures  that  howled 
and  snored  with  delight  as  they  vented  their  strength  upon 
tissues  of  steel. 

In  this  particular  building  "Jerry"  was  running  a  test,  with 
two  blue-trousered  mechanics  at  his  service  and  three  experts 
on  the  watch.  John  Cuthbertson  was  one  of  them,  Skelton 
himself  another,  the  third  a  tallish,  silky,  round-shouldered 
man,  the  colour  of  tallow  and  charcoal,  with  waxed  moustache 
and  sleepy  eyelids.  He  was  dressed  in  frock  coat,  well-pressed 
trousers,  and  patent-leather  boots,  and  he  watched  "Jerry" 
with  a  bored  air,  one  sleepy  eye  half  closed. 

"You  can  shut  off,  Simpson." 

"Yes,  that  will  do." 

The  engine  came  to  a  stop,  and  the  three  experts  stood 
staring  at  it  for  a  moment  in  absorbed  silence.  The  man  in 
the  frock  coat  produced  an  eyeglass,  and  went  walking  round 
the  bench  like  a  quiet-footed  and  observant  cat.  It  was  not 
the  engine  alone  that  interested  him,  but  Skelton's  new  trans- 
mission gear. 

He  prodded  it  here  and  there  with  his  white,  restless 
fingers. 

"Very  nice — very  nice,  indeed!  Suppose  we  go  and  have 
a  chat?" 


176  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Skelton  was  watching  the  frock-coated  figure  with  an 
amused  curiosity.  He  had  been  allowed  to  see  behind  the 
man's  pose  and  under  his  sleepy  eyelid.  The  patent-leather 
boots  and  the  neatly  creased  trousers  were  for  the  edification 
of  fools,  and  his  soft,  conciliatory,  well-shaved  manner  were 
to  help  people  to  forget  that  he  was  too  devilish  clever. 

They  passed  into  Cuthbertson's  private  room,  and  sat  down 
in  the  comfortable  arm-chairs.  A  cigar-box  was  handed  round. 
The  sleepy  man's  profile  seemed  to  harden,  with  its  straight 
nose  and  massive  chin.  A  kind  of  baffling  look  came  into  his 
eyes.  He  smoked,  and  twitched  one  patent-leather  boot. 

"Bench  tests  are  all  very  well,  but  what  do  you  think  of 
doing?" 

He  was  politely  aggressive,  and  Cuthbertson  put  the  bulk 
of  his  massive  common  sense  in  the  man's  path. 

"Go  on  testing — practically.  That's  obvious." 

The  eyeglass  turned  on  Skelton. 

"Have  you  got  plans  out?" 

"Yes.  For  heavy  motor  traction,  motor  boats,  and  self- 
propelling  railway  carriages." 

"Working  models,  full  size?  Are  you  ready  to  back  them?" 

Skelton  smiled. 

"My  banking  account  lies  in  my  head.  Cuthbertson  and  I 
are  going  in  together." 

The  Yorkshireman  lay  back  comfortably  in  his  chair,  as 
though  he  were  thoroughly  satisfied  with  life. 

"Of  course,  Doyle,  I  am  ready  to  do  the  backing.  I  believe 
in  the  thing,  but  we  are  giving  you  the  chance  of  coming  in." 

Doyle  bowed  with  cynical  urbanity. 

"Thank  you.  Supposing  we  were  to  sketch  out  a  hypotheti- 
cal agreement?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  177 

They  did  so,  but  with  a  good  deal  of  sword  and  buckler 
play  between  Cuthbertson  and  the  man  in  the  frock  coat. 
Skelton  smoked  and  listened,  holding  himself  in  reserve, 
leaving  Cuthbertson  to  deal  with  the  financial  aspect  of  the 
venture.  The  big  Yorkshireman  had  a  quiet  and  immovable 
way  with  him.  It  was  character  against  cleverness,  and  Doyle, 
who  had  made  his  hundreds  of  thousands,  and  could  lay  a 
finger  on  most  men's  soft  places,  seemed  to  know  when  he 
had  run  up  against  oak. 

"Well,  you  are  a  bit  of  rock,  Cuthbertson;  I'll  think  it 
over." 

He  rose  to  go,  putting  on  his  suave  and  conciliatory  man- 
ner with  his  top  hat.  The  eye  under  the  drooping  eyelid 
twinkled  slyly. 

"I'll  write  you  in  a  day  or  two." 

And  he  left  them  alone  together. 

Skelton  and  Cuthbertson  sat  and  eyed  each  other  in  silence 
for  some  moments.  The  ultimate  smiles  arrived  simul- 
taneously. 

"Clever  devil!  It  was  the  transmission  gear  that  fetched 
him.  That's  what  we  have  all  been  worrying  after,  and  you've 
got  it." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  join  in?" 

Cuthbertson  stroked  his  beard. 

"Sure  of  it.  He  is  an  extraordinary  beggar  is  Doyle.  He  has 
a  kind  of  second  sight,  devilish  intuition.  That's  what  has 
made  him.  He  has  hardly  ever  missed  a  good  thing.  But  he 
is  a  bit  of  a  conundrum." 

"A  conundrum — to  a  good  many  people!" 

"Did  you  notice  those  eyes  of  his?  You  never  quite  know 
what  he  is  looking  at;  they  seem  to  go  round  the  corner 
and  get  behind  you.  And  all  his  confounded  suavity  and  that 


178  THE  WHITE  GATE 

patent-leather  boot  business!  I've  got  to  know  him  a  little 
now."  \ 

"The  affable  way  in  which  he  was  going  about  to  bag  five- 
eighths  of  the  possible  profits  and  to  get  his  grip  on  the 
patent  rights!" 

"Putting  it  as  a  sort  of  favor!  I  know  how  to  sit  down  and 
play  the  mountain  with  old  Doyle.  He  will  come  in,  and  he 
is  a  genius  at  pushing  a  thing  along." 

Skelton  sat  and  stared  at  Cuthbertson's  boots. 

"You  are  treating  me  almost  too  generously,  Jack." 

"Bosh,  old  man!  I  knew  you  would  come  along  with  some- 
thing; I  was  only  waiting  for  it.  I  was  pounding  along  here, 
while  you  were  doing  the  brain-work  down  in  the  country. 
And,  by  George!  it  seems  to  answer." 

"Anyway,  you  have  escaped  getting  commercialised.  I  tell 
you,  I  believe  that  chap  Doyle  would  poison  us,  if  it  were 
possible,  walk  off  with  the  ideas,  and  spend  the  evening  enter- 
taining a  few  bishops  at  dinner." 

Cuthbertson  smiled  shrewdly. 

"Some  of  these  people  are  so  devilish  clever  that  Society 
would  have  no  chance  if  it  did  not  retain  the  handcuffs.  One 
takes  no  chances  with  Doyle.  Tie  him  up  to  the  last  eyelash, 
for  some  of  these  chaps  can  get  out  of  an  agreement  like  those 
conjuring  fellows  who  are  tied  up  in  chairs,  and  then  get  out 
behind  a  curtain.  Well,  you'll  stay  another  night?" 

Skelton  threw  his  cigar-stump  into  the  grate. 

"Thanks,  old  man,  but  I'll  get  back  to-night.  There  are 
some  things  I  want  to  look  after." 

"Cabbage  plants?" 

"You  know;  I  gave  you  a  hint." 

Cuthbertson  nodded  his  big  head. 

"Good  luck  to  you,  old  man.  By  God!  yes,  good  luck." 


Chapter  Nineteen 


O  KELT  ON  never  forgot  that  wet  walk  from  Fallowfield 
Station,  with  the  darkness  full  of  a  persistent  drizzle  and 
the  mud  squelching  under  his  feet.  Over  the  clay  lands  by 
Fallowfield  the  road  ran  through  ash  and  hazel  coppices,  and 
under  rows  of  towering  elms,  and  everywhere  there  was  a 
feeling  of  rain  and  of  leaves  falling  in  the  darkness.  His  own 
mood  had  a  warmth  of  exultation  that  kept  out  the  melan- 
choly of  the  November  night,  and  his  almost  boyish  aliveness 
made  him  remember  every  detail.  It  became  a  prelude  to 
stranger  and  more  problematical  happenings — so  vivid  a  prel- 
ude that  the  notes  of  darkness  and  rain  had  only  to  be  struck 
for  the  whole  November  night  to  be  repeated,  with  its  falling 
leaves  and  rustling  elm  trees. 

As  he  entered  his  own  gate  the  wet  smell  of  autumn  leaves 
and  soaked  soil  seemed  to  become  intensified.  He  opened  his 
chest  and  drew  in  deep  breaths,  feeling  that  life  was  excellent 
and  the  earth  itself  miraculous.  Those  few  days  in  London 
had  whipped  a  new  excitement  into  his  blood  and  flicked  up 
his  ambition,  yet  he  came  back  gladly  to  this  cottage  under  the 
fir  woods,  for  there  was  a  mystery  here  that  no  great  city 

179 


i8o  THE  WHITE  GATE 

could  surpass.  He  had  been  telling  himself  all  the  way  from 
Fallowfield  that  it  could  be  counted  to  him  for  wisdom  that  he 
had  chosen  to  get  back  nearer  to  Nature.  Mechanical  science 
and  life  in  a  great  city  were  too  thinning  for  the  human  soul. 
For  sometimes  a  man  must  run  naked  in  the  woods,  and  see 
Pan  and  listen  to  the  music  of  his  pipes.  The  city  "woman" 
with  the  painted  face  becomes  a  too  odorous  and  frowsy 
thing  when  great  oaks  dream  in  the  moonlight  and  elf  women 
glide  by  in  gossamer,  and  the  Holy  Grail  can  be  seen  like  a 
moving  heart  of  flame  by  eyes  that  can  see  other  things  besides 
steel  and  brick  and  newspapers. 

Mrs.  Gingham  had  hidden  the  key  in  the  hole  under  the 
thatch,  and  Skelton  unlocked  the  door,  and  dropped  his  bag 
on  the  couch  by  the  window.  A  struck  match  showed  him 
that  the  good  soul  had  left  the  table  laid  for  a  cold  supper. 
He  lit  the  lamp,  and  glanced  at  the  mantelpiece  to  see  if 
there  were  any  letters. 

He  found  one  that  had  been  left  by  handi  The  writing  was 
familiar. 

"Garside?  Wants  to  try  and  persuade  me  to  shoot,  prob- 
ably." 

He  felt  hungry  after  his  four-mile  walk,  and  sat  down  to 
supper.  Garside's  letter  remained  unopened  until  he  had  put 
away  a  good  helping  of  cold  meat.  Presently,  between  the 
courses,  he  slit  the  envelope  with  the  butter  knife,  and  helped 
himself  to  raspberry  tart. 

His  first  glance  at  the  letter  was  quite  casual,  for  Garside 
was  outside  the  magic  circle  of  his  mental  horizon. 

DEAR  SKELTON, — Can  you  give  me  a  call  when  you  come  back 
from  town?  I  have  some  news  for  you.  I  ought  not  to  disclose  it, 


THE  WHITE  GATE  181 

but  it  seems  to  me  that  I  might  be  helped  by  passing  it  on  to 
you.  Stuff  in  a  bottle  is  useless  on  some  occasions.  Come  up  in 
the  evening  and  have  a  smoke. — Yours  ever,  GARSIDE. 

Skelton  glanced  at  his  watch.  The  hands  stood  at  half-past 
eight. 

"Too  late  to  trudge  up  there  to-night.  What  does  he  mean 
by  being  so  cryptic?" 

Yet  he  was  conscious  of  a  clouding  of  his  mood,  of  a 
reaching  out  of  his  conjectures  towards  the  white  house  up 
yonder.  Was  Garside  pointing  at  Furze  Cottage?  Was  she 
ill,  or  had  she  made  a  second  betrayal  of  that  desire  for 
oblivion?  He  felt  curiously  uneasy,  yet  ready  to  quarrel  with 
his  own  restlessness. 

"Garside  would  have  spoken  out  if  it  were  anything  seri- 
ous. Besides,  why  should  I  immediately  imagine  he  is  re- 
ferring to  Constance?  It  seems  to  me  all  roads  lead  that 
way!" 

He  pushed  his  chair  back,  crossed  the  room,  and  looked 
along  the  mantelpiece  for  his  favourite  pipe,  an  old  "bulldog" 
with  an  amber  mouthpiece,  that  he  had  mislaid  and  forgotten 
to  take  to  town  with  him.  He  remembered  now  just  where 
he  had  left  it,  on  the  windowsill  of  the  tool-shed  behind  the 
cottage. 

He  went  into  the  kitchen  and  lit  a  candle. 

"I'll  go  up-  to-morrow  evening,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he 
opened  the  back  door. 

The  draught  blew  the  candle  out,  and  he  did  not  trouble 
to  relight  it,  knowing  his  way  perfectly  in  the  dark,  and 
feeling  sure  that  he  could  put  his  hand  at  once  upon  the  pipe. 
He  found  the  key  in  the  shed  door,  turned  it,  and  thrust  the 
door  inwards  with  his  foot. 


182  THE  WHITE  GATE 

One  of  Josh's  peculiarities  was  an  absolute  passion  for  dis- 
order, and  if  there  happened  to  be  a  wrong  place  for  a  tool 
the  lad  was  pretty  sure  to  leave  it  there.  He  had  a  haphazard 
way  of  hanging  things  up,  generally  with  an  eye  on  some- 
thing else,  and  as  often  as  not  they  fell  down  again,  and  he 
left  the  picking  up  till  the  morrow.  Skelton,  entering  in  the 
dark,  had  no  notion  that  a  roll  of  wire  netting  had  toppled 
over  and  lay  across  the  entry.  He  caught  his  toe  in  it  and 
pitched  forward  on  his  hands. 

Something  sharp  caught  him  across  the  left  wrist,  and 
being  human,  he  swore. 

"Devil  take  the  young  fool!" 

The  fingers  of  his  left  hand  felt  warm  and  wet,  and 
scrambling  up  he  groped  about  to  find  the  thing  on  which 
he  had  fallen.  It  was  a  hoe  lying  on  the  floor,  blade-edge 
upwards,  and  if  Josh  had  improvised  an  ingenious  trap  he 
could  not  have  been  more  successful. 

Skelton  knew  that  he  was  bleeding,  but  he  did  not  realise 
how  badly  till  he  got  back  into  the  cottage  and  into  the 
light. 

"Damn!" 

The  sharp  edge  of  the  hoe  had  gashed  one  of  the  arteries 
at  the  wrist,  and  blood  was  spurting  out  in  no  uncertain 
fashion.  Skelton  knew  something  of  "first  aid,"  and  gripping 
his  left  arm  below  the  arm-pit  and  pressing  hard  with  his 
thumb,  he  saw  the  flow  at  the  wrist  cease. 

"This  setdes  it  about  seeing  Garside." 

In  five  minutes  he  was  out  in  the  lane,  after  locking  the 
door.  It  was  so  dark  that  he  decided  not  to  try  the  path 
through  the  woods,  but  to  keep  to  the  main  road. 

Garside  had  finished  a  hard  day,  and  was  largely  spread 


THE  WHITE  GATE  183 

before  the  fire,  reading  a  novel  and  smoking  an  old  pipe, 
when  Skelton  rang  the  surgery  bell.  Garside  threw  the  book 
aside,  heaved  himself  out  of  the  chair,  and  went  himself  to 
see  what  was  wanted. 

"Hallo,  is  it  you?  Come  along  in." 

"Sheer  necessity,  my  dear  chap." 

"What?" 

"I  never  imagined  that  one  could  get  so  tired  hanging  on 
to  an  artery  for  half  an  hour." 

"What  the  dickens  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Trying  to  find  something  in  a  dark  shed,  and  falling 
over  things  that  confounded  boy  of  mine  had  left  lying  about. 
I  landed  with  one  wrist  on  the  edge  of  a  hoe." 

"Compressing  your  own  brachial!  Come  along  in." 

He  lit  the  gas  and  glanced  at  Skelton's  wrist. 

"Artery  cut?" 

"I'll  let  go  for  a  moment." 

"Phew!  You  will  have  to  be  tied  up.  And  I  can  see  that 
that  hoe  was  not  particularly  clean." 

"My  lad  does  not  worry  about  such  details." 

"Funny  sort  of  coincidence.  Sit  down  here." 

He  made  Skelton  sit  down  and  bathe  his  wrist  in  a  basin 
of  warm  water  while  he  got  ready  his  instruments,  disinfec- 
tants and  dressings. 

"Feeling  all  right?" 

"Yes.  I  had  been  back  only  about  half  an  hour  after  a 
most  successful  jaunt  to  town.  I  got  London  fever,  and 
wanted  to  walk  down  Goswell  Road  and  through  Clerken- 
well  and  Aldersgate,  and  smell  all  the  old  smells.  I  tell  you 
Bloomsbury  gave  me  thrills,  and  I  wanted  to  rush  in  and 


184  THE  WHITE  GATE 

ask  the  porter  at  the  Foundling  to  come  out  and  dine  in 
Oxford  Street." 

"By  Jove,  old  man,  don't!  It  makes  me  think  of  those  roar- 
ing days  when  I  had  eighteen-penny  table  d'hote  lunches  at 
little  Italian  restaurants  when  I  was  in  cash  and  felt  ducal. 
And  the  hospital  'rugger'  matches,  and  the  rags,  and  the 
smell  of  the  hot  streets  in  summer,  and  the  fireflies  and  fly- 
by-nights,  and  the  strawberry  barrows  and  the  flower  girls, 
and  Piccadilly  Circus!  By  Heaven!  don't  I  wish  I  was  back 
in  it  all,  sometimes.  Now,  let's  have  a  look." 

He  examined  the  cut. 

"I  shall  have  to  get  hold  of  that  artery." 

"All  right;  go  ahead." 

It  was  by  no  means  a  pleasant  business,  but  Garside  was 
deft  with  his  ringers,  and  both  men  talked  hard  all  the  time 
as  though  nothing  were  happening. 

"That's  got  him.  Now  for  a  good  clean  up.  I  shall  have 
to  put  you  in  a  couple  of  stitches.  By  the  way,  did  you  get  that 
letter  of  mine?" 

"Yes.  It  was  rather  cryptic." 

"But  probably  you  had  some  idea " 

"I  was  thinking  of  Furze  Cottage." 

"So  was  I." 

Garside  went  on  talking  to  cover  the  process  of  putting  in 
the  stitches,  and  so  keenly  concerned  was  Skelton  with  what 
the  big  man  was  saying  that  he  hardly  noticed  the  pricking 
of  the  needle. 

"The  life  up  there  is  enough  to  send  any  girl  into  melan- 
cholia. The  servant  came  down  and  saw  me,  and  told  me  a 
lot  of  things.  What's  one  to  do  with  a  mother  like  that?  It's 
perdition  for  a  sensitive  girl  to  be  near  her." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  185 

"You  mean  she's  likely  to  break  down  mentally?" 

"The  life  has  been  bleeding  her  to  death,  and  who  can 
wonder  at  it  ?  Sordid  monotony  with  that  Brent  woman " 

He  began  to  bandage  Skelton's  wrist. 

"I  thought,  old  man,  I'd  tell  you." 

"And  I  shall  be  eternally  grateful;  I  happen  to  know  how 
serious  it  is." 

"You  do,  do  you?" 

He  looked  keenly  at  Skelton. 

"I  can't  tell  you  the  incident  that  opened  my  eyes.  It 
wouldn't  be  quite  fair  to  her." 

"All  right.  We'll  turn  in  now  and  have  a  smoke.  How  are 
you  feeling?  You  look  a  bit " 

"Rather  green!  I  feel  rather  like " 

"Hold  on.  Put  your  head  down,  right  down  between  your 
knees." 

He  dashed  away,  and  returned  in  a  couple  of  minutes  with 
a  stiff  glass  of  whisky  and  water. 

"Drink  it  down.  I  have  just  told  one  of  my  maids  to  have 
a  bed  made  up.  You'll  stay  the  night." 

"It's  good  of  you,  old  man." 

"Nonsense.  It's  past  ten  o'clock,  and  we  can  have  a  yarn 
before  we  turn  in." 

Garside's  den  was  a  cosmopolitan  kind  of  room.  He  was 
a  great  sportsman,  and  had  contrived  in  his  early  days  to  get 
himself  attached  to  one  or  two  African  exploration  parties. 
The  hearthrug  was  a  lion's  skin,  and  over  the  door  a  little 
stuffed  monkey  sat  on  a  bracket  and  grinned.  His  gun  cases 
lay  under  a  table  in  a  recess  beside  the  fireplace,  and  one 
shelf  of  his  instrument  cabinet  was  given  up  to  fly-books, 
reels,  and  lines.  Behind  the  door  were  several  cases  of  birds 


*86  THE  WHITE  GATE 

that  he  had  shot,  stuffed,  and  set  up  himself.  It  was  the  room 
of  a  practical  man — a  man  with  a  keen  eye,  a  big  heart,  and 
a  steady  hand. 

When  the  hall  clock  struck  eleven  Skelton  and  Garside  were 
still  sitting  over  the  fire,  with  the  lamp  turned  low.  Garside 
was  lying  back,  with  his  feet  on  the  arch  of  the  grate,  Skelton 
bending  forward,  elbows  on  knees.  He  had  been  hearing  the 
whole  truth,  and  his  face  was  a  little  grim. 

"Garside,  I'm  glad  you've  told  me  this." 

"I  thought  you  would  be." 

"It  explains  a  good  deal.  By  George!  yes,  it  has  given  me 
light.  That  damnable  young  cad!" 

His  eyes  caught  the  firelight. 

"What  a  vile  thing  sex  is  at  times.  It  is  like  a  rooting  hog." 

Garside  crushed  a  piece  of  coal  with  his  heel. 

"It  is  a  case  for  a  healer,  and  under  the  present  condi- 
tions   " 

"That's  it.  She  wants  taking  away  and  giving  the  elixir  of 
life.  That  mother  of  hers  would  be  better  dead." 

"She  will  be  before  so  very  long." 

"But  in  the  meanwhile " 

He  stared  hard  at  the  fire. 

"It  has  got  to  be  a  rescue,  knight-errantry  and  the  high 
horse.  You  don't  think  it  will  hurt  her,  old  man,  if  I " 

"No,  you're  to  be  trusted.  And,  by  the  way,  I  think  it's 
time  you  got  to  bed." 


Chapter  Twenty 


JL  HERE  had  been  three  days  of  continuous  rain,  and  the 
wet  desolation  of  Roymer  Heath  had  almost  merged  into 
the  grey  of  the  autumn  sky.  Constance,  utterly  weary  of  the 
house,  had  fled  out  upon  one  of  her  long  walks,  for  she  was 
beginning  to  find  that  she  could  not  sleep  at  night  unless 
she  tired  out  her  body.  She  was  ill — mentally  ill — and  she 
knew  it,  and  would  have  known  it  without  the  enlightenment 
of  the  excuse  Garside  had  made  to  see  her  when  he  had  come 
up  to  visit  her  mother.  She  had  a  feeling  that  her  "self"  had 
been  divided  into  two  distinct  entities,  one  remaining  subjec- 
tively within  the  body,  the  other  hovering  apart  and  watching 
the  earthly  twin.  She  knew  that  she  was  drifting  into  a  state 
of  hopeless  melancholy,  and  she  could  see  herself  being  car- 
ried towards  the  sluices  by  the  steady  glide  of  the  black  water 
of  her  unhappiness.  An  effort  was  needed  for  her  to  save 
herself;  Garside  had  said  as  much;  but  she  felt  utterly  unable 
to  make  that  effort.  In  fact,  she  did  not  care  greatly  what 
happened.  She  was  even  ceasing  to  feel  things,  and  a  fatal 
numbness  was  stealing  over  her,  the  numbness  that  steals  over 
those  who  lie  down  to  sleep  in  the  snow. 

187 


i88  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Yellow  leaves  were  being  piled  up  in  the  ditches,  and  as 
she  wandered  along  the  wet  lanes  the  scent  of  decay  was 
everywhere.  It  all  seemed  part  of  this  pathetic  decadence,  the 
death  and  passing  of  the  desires  of  life.  She  watched  leaves 
falling,  and  they  seemed  like  drops  of  blood,  or  the  hairs 
from  the  head  of  some  tragically  unhappy  woman.  For  Con- 
stance Brent  the  whole  landscape  was  painted  in  sad  and 
morbid  colours,  and  the  mouth  of  winter  was  ready  to  moan 
a  requiem. 

She  passed  the  gate  of  Skelton's  cottage,  and  a  moment's 
flickering  curiosity  made  her  turn  back  and  look  over  the 
gate.  It  was  during  the  time  that  Skelton  was  in  town  launch- 
ing "Jerry"  upon  a  problematical  commercial  career.  The  cot- 
tage was  shut  up  and  the  curtains  drawn,  but  in  the  garden 
Constance  saw  a  boy  planting  out  spring  cabbages  with  a 
dibble.  The  wet  black  earth,  the  green  of  the  young  plants, 
and  the  brown  of  the  boy's  corduroy  trousers  were  in  vivid 
contrast.  A  great  blue  rain  cloud  hung  in  the  northern  sky 
above  the  gaunt  tops  of  the  firs. 

Constance  walked  on,  wondering  whether  this  man  with 
the  brown  face  and  the  intent  eyes  would  leave  her  un- 
molested. Her  attitude  towards  him  was  one  of  hesitating 
incredulity.  She  felt  so  infinitely  superfluous  that  Skelton's 
aggressive  interest  in  her  failed  somehow  to  be  convincing. 
Even  if  he  were  not  a  superior  sort  of  Herbert  Gascoyne,  it 
was  all  so  useless,  so  impossible.  She  told  herself  that  she  had 
not  the  heart  to  care  for  any  man,  and  that  she  was  nobody 
in  the  most  significant  and  shameful  sense,  and  that  a  man 
could  not  mate  with  nobody.  The  very  thought  of  marriage 
frightened  her.  It  was  a  strange,  horribly  intimate,  hazard- 
ous state,  and  the  very  idea  of  physical  surrender  made  her 


THE  WHITE  GATE  189 

shudder.  At  that  time,  in  the  thick  of  the  fog  of  her  morbid 
loneliness,  she  saw  the  creature,  man,  distorted  and  exag- 
gerated. 

Constance  was  tired  out  when  she  returned  to  Furze  Cot- 
tage, and  her  mother  was  in  one  of  her  peevish  moods,  and 
insisted  on  being  read  to.  The  book  that  Dora  Brent  chose 
was  a  volume  of  crudely  realistic  short  stories,  things  that  left 
the  tongue  rough,  and  a  sense  of  uncleanness  somewhere. 
Constance  read  as  though  she  did  not  realise  what  she  was 
reading.  She  strung  the  words  off  mechanically,  without  ex- 
pression, and  sometimes  without  sense. 

Dora  Brent  showed  temper. 

"If  you  can't  read  better  than  that  you  had  better  shut  the 
book  up.  I  wish  you  weren't  so  abominably  selfish." 

Constance's  face  and  hands  were  flaccid. 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  am  tired." 

"You  are  always  tired  when  I  want  you  to  do  anything. 
I  shall  go  to  bed." 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word,  and  had  her  dinner  taken  up 
to  her  by  Mary,  while  Gussie  lay  beside  the  tray,  and  was  fed 
with  tit-bits  from  madam's  plate. 

Constance  spent  the  evening  on  the  drawing-room  sofa, 
with  the  lamp  turned  low,  and  the  fire  half  out.  She  lay 
there  brooding,  in  a  state  half  between  wakefulness  and  sleep, 
conscious  of  a  dull  pain  somewhere,  a  pain  that  felt  as  though 
it  would  never  pass.  It  was  one  long,  spiritual  ache,  with  a 
sense  of  compression  above  the  eyes,  and  emptiness  at  the 
heart.  Time  had  no  significance.  Her  senses  were  half 
numbed.  Even  the  idea  of  going  upstairs  and  undressing  her- 
self seemed  to  demand  too  great  an  effort. 

She  was  roused  suddenly  by  the  ringing  of  her  mother's 


190  THE  WHITE  GATE 

little  hand-bell  in  the  room  above.  The  sound  was  insistent, 
querulous,  and  compelled  her  to  give  heed  to  it.  She  rose  list- 
lessly, and  went  upstairs  to  her  mother's  room. 

A  night-light  was  burning  beside  the  bed.  The  face  on  the 
pillow  looked  flushed  and  stupid. 

"Can't  sleep— can't  sleep  at  all." 

Her  utterance  was  thick,  as  though  her  lips  were  swollen. 

"Pour  m'out  a  dose.  Glass  by  the  bed." 

Constance  went  to  the  medicine  cupboard  and  found  the 
sleeping  mixture  and  the  tablespoon  that  was  used  for  meas- 
uring. The  light  in  the  room  was  very  dim,  but  she  managed 
to  pour  out  a  dose  into  the  spoon  and  emptied  it  into  the 
glass  that  stood  on  the  table  beside  the  bed.  A  pile  of  books 
lay  between  the  night-light  and  the  glass  and  threw  it  into 
shadow. 

"Here  it  is." 

Dora  Brent  sat  up  in  bed,  took  the  glass  from  Constance, 
and  drank  the  stuff  down.  Her  hand  was  very  tremulous. 

"Sleep  now.  Tell  Mary  not  t'  make  a  noise." 

Constance  took  the  glass  from  her  and  put  it  back  on  the 
table. 

"Good  night." 

"Goo— night." 

She  slipped  out  of  the  room  with  a  feeling  of  relief,  for 
she  had  grown  to  hate  it  because  of  its  associated  ugliness. 

Constance  slept  well  that  night,  for  she  had  tired  out  her 
body,  and  when  she  woke  next  morning  the  sun  was  shining. 
She  lay  still  for  a  while,  listening  to  Gussie  yapping  inter- 
mittently in  her  mother's  room.  The  dog  seemed  more  rest- 
less than  usual,  and  she  wondered  how  her  mother  could 
stand  the  noise. 

The  sunshine  persuaded   her  to   get   up  early,    and   she 


THE  WHITE  GATE  191 

opened  the  window  wide  and  looked  out  over  the  heath.  The 
sunlight  was  still  struggling  with  masses  of  white  mist  that 
streamed  upwards  like  smoke  and  dissolved  into  the  upper 
air.  Here  and  there  a  Scots  fir  loomed  through  the  vapour, 
vague  and  gigantic.  In  the  garden  below  the  leaves  of  the 
laurel  hedge  were  dull  and  lustreless,  covered  with  a  fine 
film  of  moisture,  and  the  last  roses  hung  their  heads,  over- 
weighted by  the  dew.  Between  two  rolling  masses  of  mist 
Constance  could  see  the  black  Rusper  Woods  thrusting  their 
peaks  up  into  the  sunlight. 

She  began  to  dress,  becoming  more  and  more  conscious  of 
Gussie's  resdess  yapping.  How  Dora  Brent  could  suffer  the 
discord  she  could  not  imagine.  And  then  it  struck  her  that 
there  was  an  unusual  note  in  the  dog's  barking. 

Constance  had  turned  towards  the  door  when  she  heard 
Mary  come  out  of  her  room,  walk  along  the  passage,  and 
enter  Dora  Brent's  room.  For  the  moment  the  dog's  yapping 
grew  to  a  crescendo,  and  then  whimpered  out  into  silence. 
Constance  stood  listening.  The  silence  struck  her  as  so  very 
strange,  for  there  was  no  sound  of  voices. 

Opening  the  door,  she  went  out  into  the  passage,  to  find 
Mary  coming  towards  her.  There  was  a  north  window  here, 
and  the  cold  light  poured  in  and  lit  up  the  woman's  face. 
It  was  shocked  and  very  pale. 

"Miss  Connie !" 

"Something  has  happened?" 

They  stared  at  each  other,  Mary  holding  herself  very  stiffly 
and  gripping  hard  at  her  self-control. 

"Miss  Connie,  just  go  back  to  your  room  for  a  while." 

"Something  has  happened.  I  heard  Gussie  barking." 

"Did  you?" 

"Mary,  tell  me;  I  must  know." 


i92  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Miss  Connie,  dear,  she's — she's  dead." 

They  stood,  both  of  them,  as  though  stupefied,  looking  at 
each  other  in  the  cold  northern  light  of  the  passage.  Con- 
stance's face  was  a  white  mask.  She  was  trying  to  grasp  things, 
trying  to  think. 

Then  Mary  spoke. 

"She  had  had  her  sleeping  draught,  for  I  poured  it  out  for 
her  when  I  fetched  away  the  plates,  and  the  glass  is  empty." 

"Mary!" 

Constance's  eyes  dilated. 

"But  I  poured  it  out  too — when  she  rang  the  bell.  She 
never  told  me " 

Mary's  face  was  working. 

"Oh,  Miss  Connie,  my  dear!" 

The  girl  went  to  her  and  put  her  hands  upon  the  woman's 
shoulders. 

"Mary,  look  at  me!  She  must  have  had  a  double  dose.  And 
I  never  noticed  it  in  the  glass,  for  the  light  was  so  bad.  I've 
killed  her!" 

Mary's  eyes  tried  to  meet  hers,  to  answer  them  reassuringly, 
to  thrust  the  horror  of  the  thing  aside. 

"It  may  be " 

"But  she  had  it— the  double  dose.  I've  killed  her!" 

Mary  put  her  arms  round  her  and  began  to  speak  in  an 
awed  and  appealing  whisper. 

"Don't  look  like  that,  Miss  Connie,  for  God's  sake  don't! 
It  was  as  much  my  fault  as  yours.  Now,  put  your  head  down 
here  and  cry  it  out.  Do,  now,  dear  heart." 

But  Constance  freed  herself,  turned,  and  walked  back 
slowly  and  steadily  to  her  room,  her  face  like  the  face  of 
death. 


Chapter  Twenty-one 


IT  WAS  about  eight  o'clock  when  the  lad  who  looked 
after  the  pony  and  the  garden  at  Furze  Cottage  came  coast- 
ing down  Roymer  Hill  on  his  bicycle,  swerved  round  into 
the  side  road  and  dismounted  outside  Garside's  gate.  He  left 
his  bicycle  against  the  gate-post,  ran  up  the  path  leading  to 
the  surgery,  extracting  a  crumpled  letter  from  a  side  pocket 
as  he  ran. 

Garside  and  Skeiton  were  at  breakfast,  with  an  open 
French  window  letting  in  the  fresh  November  air  and  a 
robin  who  hopped  in  daily  for  a  meal  of  crumbs.  The  rank 
green  lawn  was  dappled  with  sunlight  and  fallen  leaves,  and 
in  the  border  beyond  it  chrysanthemums  white,  purple,  bronze 
and  gold,  were  still  in  bloom. 

A  maid  brought  in  a  note  on  a  brass  tray. 

"From  Furze  Cottage,  sir." 

Garside's  eyes  met  Skelton's  as  he  took  the  note  from  the 
tray  and  opened  it. 

The  writing  was  in  pencil,  large,  round  and  childish,  the 
writing  of  a  servant. 


194  THE  WHITE  GATE 

DEAR  DOCTOR, 

Mrs.  Brent  died  in  the  night.  Please  come  quick.  She  had  too 
much  of  her  sleeping  draught.  I'm  afraid  for  Miss  Connie. 

Yours  obediendy, 

MARY  HALL. 

Garside  passed  the  letter  across  to  Skelton. 

"What  does  that  say  to  you?" 

"Good  God!  Is  the  woman  dead?" 

"I  had  better  go  up  at  once.  The  surgery  people  can  wait." 

"Shall  you  drive?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  come  with  you." 

"All  right.  I  have  a  feeling  that  there  is  something  behind 
this." 

Skelton  was  re-reading  Mary's  scrawl  in  pencil. 

"Did  she  take  a  narcotic  as  a  rule?" 

"Yes,  chloral.  It  was  no  use  trying  to  break  the  habit." 

"I  wonder  how  she  got  an  overdose?" 

"That's  it.  I  hope  the  girl  has  not  to  go  through  some 
sordid  inquiry." 

"I  hope  to  God  not." 

In  ten  minutes  Garside  had  his  car  out,  and  they  were 
climbing  Roymer  Hill  through  the  thin  November  sunshine. 
Skelton  had  his  left  arm  in  a  sling,  and  his  eyes  had  a  touch 
of  fever  in  them,  the  fever  of  a  long  night  passed  with  but 
little  sleep.  When  they  had  left  the  church  with  its  black 
yews  behind  them,  Roymer  Heath  began  to  spread  to  the 
west,  blue  and  hazy  in  the  sunlight.  Here  and  there  a  gorse 
bush  showed  a  sprinkling  of  yellow  bloom. 

Garside  turned  the  car  into  the  lane  leading  to  Furze  Cot- 


THE  WHITE  GATE  195 

tage,  and  they  saw  the  white  walls  and  brown  roof  showing 
between  two  groups  of  Scots  firs. 

"Rum  thing  death.  I  never  can  get  used  to  it.  Such  a  brutal 
breaking  away  of  everything." 

"If  it  could  be  relied  on  to  take  the  right  people " 

Garside  was  thinking  of  his  own  wife,  dead  these  seven 
years,  yet  living  on  in  memories  that  were  miraculous  and 
tender.  He  could  never  think  of  her  without  a  savage  feeling 
against  Fate  and  a  welling  up  of  infinite  compassion.  That 
one  woman  lying  dead  in  the  earth!  It  had  never  ceased  to  be 
incredible. 

"Ah,  if  it  could!" 

He  pulled  the  car  up  in  front  of  the  white  gate  where 
wheel  tracks  showed  in  the  gravel.  Dora  Brent  would  never 
pass  to  and  fro  again  in  her  pony-cart  with  the  Pekinese  yap- 
ping on  the  seat. 

Skelton  climbed  out  to  let  Garside  pass. 

"I'll  stay  here." 

"All  right." 

"Don't  forget,  I  am  waiting  to  take  my  chance." 

"I  shall  not  forget." 

Mary  had  been  on  the  watch,  for  she  met  Garside  at  the 
door.  Her  face  looked  haggard  and  shrunken,  the  mouth 
firm,  the  eyes  very  anxious. 

"Doctor,  it's  good  to  see  you.  I've  had  two  shocks  in  a 
morning." 

"How  did  it  happen?" 

Mary  glanced  over  her  shoulder  as  though  the  house  held 
something  that  was  to  be  feared. 

"Come  upstairs,  sir,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

They  went  into  that  upper  room  where  Dora  Brent  lay 


196  THE  WHITE  GATE 

sleeping  the  long  sleep,  with  the  blinds  drawn  down  and 
the  bed-clothes  folded  neatly.  The  dog  had  been  taken  away 
and  shut  up  in  the  stable.  Mary  closed  the  door,  drew  up  one 
of  the  blinds,  and  stood  looking  at  the  dead  woman  with  a 
hard  and  resentful  wonder.  Yet  there  was  some  pity  in  her 
eyes,  pity  for  the  woman  whose  life  brought  pain  and  sad- 
ness to  others. 

"It's  funny  to  think  of  the  harm  she's  done,  and  the  fine- 
looking  woman  she  was — and  she  lying  dead." 

"Let  it  pass." 

"I'll  have  to  tell  you,  sir.  She  had  a  double  dose  of  that 
chloral,  though  I  don't  know  whether  she  died  of  that.  She 
asked  me  to  pour  out  one  ready,  and  she  must  have  forgotten 
— or  been  stupid,  you  know — for  she  rang,  and  Miss  Connie 
went  up  and  poured  her  out  a  second  dose.  The  light  was 
bad,  and  she  didn't  see  the  other  stuff  in  the  glass;  and  she 
knows,  and  she  says  she  killed  her." 

Garside  stood  at  gaze. 

"You  found  her  like  this?" 

"Yes,  quite  peaceful;  but  the  dog,  he  took  on,  poor  thing. 
And  there's  worse  to  tell." 

"What?" 

"Miss  Connie  shut  herself  in  her  room,  and  I  had  a  kind 
of  dread  on  me  because  of  the  look  I  had  seen  in  her  eyes. 
I  was  writing  that  letter  to  you,  sir,  when  I  heard  her  come 
out  of  the  room,  and  something  sent  me  upstairs  after  her. 
She  came  in  here  and  over  to  the  cupboard  yonder,  and  was 
for  taking " 

Garside  nodded. 

"Poor  child!  Poor  little  woman!" 

"I  took  the  bottle  away,  sir,  and  broke  it— there— in  the 


THE  WHITE  GATE  197 

grate.  And  I  got  my  arms  round  her,  though  she  seemed  sort 
of  strange  and  dead.  She's  in  her  room  now,  with  the  key 
turned." 

They  stood  looking  at  the  dead  woman,  and  the  same 
thought  was  in  either  mind. 

"Do  you  think  it  can  be  kept  quiet,  sir?" 

"What,  Mrs.  Brent's  death?" 

"Yes." 

"No.  I  shall  have  to  tell  someone  else.  But  I  don't  suppose 
that  overdose  would  have  killed  a  healthy  woman." 

"If  you  could  only  make  Miss  Connie  believe  that!" 

"I'll  try  to." 

For  the  moment  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done  in  the 
room  where  Dora  Brent  lay.  Mary  pulled  down  the  blind, 
and  turned  again  to  Garside. 

"Will  you  see  Miss  Constance,  sir?" 

"Yes,  if  she  will  see  me." 

He  went  downstairs  into  the  dining-room,  while  Mary 
knocked  at  Constance's  locked  door. 

"Miss  Connie,  dear,  Dr.  Garside  would  like  to  see  you." 

A  lifeless  voice  answered  her: 

"I  can't,  Mary — I  can't  see  anybody." 

"But  he's  so  kind,  and  he'll  tell  you " 

"I  can't.  Ask  him  to  go  away." 

"But,  Miss  Connie,  dear,  do  just  try." 

"It's  no  use,  Mary,  I  couldn't  bear  it." 

The  voice  was  unpersuadable — the  voice  of  obstinate  misery 
that  refused  to  come  forth  and  uncover  its  face.  Mary  re- 
treated, and  told  Garside  of  her  failure. 

"She  won't  see  you  yet,  doctor." 


198  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"No?  Well,  it's  understandable.  Perhaps  she  is  better  left 
alone  for  a  few  hours." 

"Poor  dear!  It  means  a  break-up  of  everything.  You  know, 
doctor,  she'll  have  nothing  but  what  the  furniture  fetches. 
It  was  all  in  an  annuity,  and  Mrs.  Brent  wasn't  a  woman  to 
stint  herself.  And " 

"All  that  can  be  looked  into  presently.  The  first  thing  is 
to  get  through  all  this  miserable  business  and  to  spare  her  all 
we  can.  You  leave  it  to  me." 

He  found  Skelton  walking  restlessly  up  and  down  outside 
the  laurel  hedge.  Garside  was  not  a  man  who  wasted  words, 
and  he  told  Skelton  the  blunt  facts.  They  brought  a  kind  of 
hunger  of  compassion  into  the  younger  man's  eyes. 

"Can't  you  manage  to  save  her  all  this?" 

"Old  man,  it's  not  possible.  It's  fairer  to  her  that  every- 
thing should  be  clear.  I'll  drive  over  this  morning  and  see 
Crumwell;  he's  a  decent  fellow,  and  will  make  things  as 
easy  as  he  can." 

They  looked  each  other  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Do  you  think  she  ought  to  be  left  alone?" 

"I  should  say  that  was  just  a  wild  impulse  when  the 
pain  was  at  its  worst.  I  think  it  is  best  for  the  present." 

Skelton  was  grinding  one  heel  into  the  sandy  path,  his 
forehead  heavily  lined. 

"I  am  going  to  stay  about  here  for  a  while.  I  tell  you,  Gar- 
side,  I  have  a  queer  feeling  about  things,  and  that  I  must  be 
near  her  just  now,  even  though  she  does  not  know.  I  dare 
say  you  understand." 

Garside's  eyes  looked  very  sad. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  understand,"  he  said. 


Chapter  Twenty-two 


O  KELT 'ON  wandered  about  among  the  furze  bushes  and 
the  groups  of  firs  that  covered  the  heath  in  front  of  the  white 
house,  whose  darkened  windows  blinked  in  the  November 
sunlight.  He  could  hear  the  incessant  whining  of  a  dog  com- 
ing from  the  stable,  where  the  Pekinese  had  been  shut  up 
with  the  fat  brown  pony,  and  the  sound  jarred  on  Skelton, 
perhaps  because  he  felt  that  it  must  be  a  sound  of  torture  to 
Constance  herself. 

"They  must  get  rid  of  that  dog,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I'll 
get  Garside  to  have  it  shot;  it  isn't  necessary  to  waste  senti- 
ment on  a  little  beast  like  that." 

Compassion  and  love  grow  on  the  same  stem,  and  to  Skel- 
ton the  pathos  of  this  maid's  tragedy  meant  an  almost  mi- 
raculous quickening  of  his  inward  vision,  and  an  exquisite 
refining  of  all  his  intuitions.  He  could  see  beyond  the  drawn 
blinds  and  glimpse  what  was  passing  in  that  silent  house. 
The  aching  regret,  the  self-accusing  shame,  the  vague  and 
prospectless  future,  the  shrinking  of  a  sensitive  spirit  from 
the  insolent  questions  the  world  asks — all  these  were  very  real 

199 


200  THE  WHITE  GATE 

to  him.  For  that  hour  on  Roymer  Heath  he  had  the  soul  of 
a  seer,  and  his  restlessness  was  the  greater  because  of  his 
supernormal  vision. 

He  stood  leaning  against  a  tree-trunk,  under  the  shade  of 
a  group  of  firs,  and  watched  the  white  house  with  eyes  that 
waited.  He  had  heard,  in  imagination,  the  plaintive  crying 
of  a  voice  a  great  way  off,  and  he  was  but  waiting  for  what 
should  follow. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  acquiescence  that  he  saw  a  blind 
lifted  at  one  of  the  upper  windows,  remain  raised  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  fall  back  again  like  a  lid  closing  over  an  eye. 
The  shadows  thrown  by  the  firs  and  the  grouping  of  the 
trunks  made  it  unlikely  that  anyone  coming  from  the  house 
would  see  him  standing  there.  He  kept  his  eyes  on  the  white 
gate  in  the  laurel  hedge,  feeling  convinced  that  she  would 
come  out  by  that  gate.  He  was  as  sure  of  it  as  he  was  of  the 
fact  that  his  senses  served  him. 

Everything  happened  just  as  he  had  forecast  it.  The  white 
gate  opened,  and  a  figure  came  out  through  the  opening  in 
the  hedge  with  something  of  the  air  of  a  bird  escaping  from 
the  doorway  of  a  cage.  She  did  not  see  Skelton,  but  fled 
straightway  along  the  heathland  path  that  led  down  to  the 
Rusper  Woods,  pinning  her  hat  on  as  she  went. 

Skelton  was  able  to  keep  her  in  sight  without  much  trouble, 
the  more  so  because  Constance  fled  away  blindly  without 
looking  back  to  see  if  she  were  followed.  She  had  put  on  a 
plain  white  blouse  and  skirt,  and  the  white  figure  went  in 
and  out  among  the  furze  like  an  ivory  shuttle  through  the 
strands  on  a  loom.  She  walked  very  fast,  and  even  broke  into 
a  run  at  times  where  the  slope  of  the  ground  was  with  her, 
and  the  very  way  she  crossed  the  heath  was  but  a  rendering 


THE  WHITE  GATE  201 

into  life  of  Skelton's  premonitions.  Impulse  had  seized  her, 
and  was  hurrying  her  away.  She  was  obsessed  by  a  wild  desire 
to  escape  from  everything,  to  attain  oblivion,  to  sink  into 
forgetfulness. 

Skelton  let  her  enter  the  woods  before  he  quickened  his 
pace  to  overtake  her.  He  was  half  afraid  of  losing  her  among 
the  trees,  but  Constance  kept  to  the  path  as  though  she  were 
following  the  thread  of  her  fate.  She  reached  the  edge  of  the 
clearing  where  the  Whispering  Pool  lay  half  in  sunlight  and 
half  in  shadow  before  Skelton  closed  in  on  her,  running  the 
last  fifty  yards  over  the  carpet  of  pine  needles.  So  obsessed 
was  she  by  her  own  mad  purpose  that  she  did  not  hear  him, 
did  not  so  much  as  dream  that  anyone  was  near  her. 

He  called  her  by  name. 

"Constance." 

She  turned  without  a  sound,  and  stood  facing  him,  mute 
and  confounded.  Skelton  was  within  three  yards  of  her,  and 
she  was  conscious  of  the  shine  in  his  eyes,  and  of  a  some- 
thing that  transfigured  his  whole  face.  Under  the  shade  of  the 
fir  woods  and  by  the  sunlit  edge  of  the  pool  death  and  life 
challenged  each  other. 

Skelton  acted  on  impulse,  the  impulse  that  carries  a  man 
above  and  beyond  self-consciousness.  His  love  came  forth 
naked  and  unashamed. 

He  went  and  took  one  of  her  hanging  hands,  and  stood 
looking  into  her  face. 

"You  are  coming  back  with  me." 

She  shivered  as  though  cold,  but  said  nothing. 

"Look  up  at  me,  dear;  look  and  see  if  there  is  anything  to 
make  you  afraid." 


202  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Her  eyes  rose  to  his,  mesmerised,  answering  to  his  sug- 
gestion. 

"I— I  don't  know " 

He  lifted  the  hand  and  kissed  it. 

^'Connie,  I  am  going  to  make  a  stand  for  you  against  all 
this.  It's  no  theatrical  business.  I  want  you  more  than  I  ever 
wanted  anything  in  life  before.  You  are  coming  back  with 
me,  and  I  am  going  to  teach  you  to  live." 

She  seemed  dazed,  unable  to  understand. 

"But " 

Skelton  put  his  right  arm  over  her  shoulders,  and  drew  her 
round  and  back  towards  the  path  that  led  to  the  heath. 

"Yes,  I  know;  I  know  everything.  There  is  nothing  you 
need  tell  me.  Try  and  realise  that  I  understand,  and  that  you 
can  talk  to  me  as  though  you  were  talking  to  yourself." 

She  suffered  him  to  shepherd  her  back  under  the  firs  whose 
topmost  boughs  breathed  with  a  vague,  yearning  wind  from 
the  west.  Her  white  face  and  her  wondering  eyes  were  part 
of  the  mystery  of  this  place  of  lights  and  shadows.  The 
strong  arm  round  her  seemed  to  be  lifting  her  up  out  of  the 
waters  of  darkness  into  which  she  had  fallen.  Inarticulate 
astonishment  seized  her.  It  was  so  impossible  that  anyone 
should  trouble  to  understand. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  coming  here?" 

"When  we  care  very  greatly,  there  are  some  things  that 
we  take  care  to  know.  Now,  you  are  not  going  to  be  afraid 
of  me.  I  am  not  like  that  young  cad  of  a  Gascoyne." 

He  felt  her  shrink  within  his  arm. 

"Oh!" 

'It  is  best  to  speak  out." 

"I  didn't  care " 


THE  WHITE  GATE  203 

"I  know  that.  It  was  just  because  you  were  most  abominably 
lonely  and  you  wanted — life.  That  is  not  the  only  sort  of  man 
in  the  world." 

He  watched  her  white,  meditative  and  suffering  face. 

"You  know  that  I " 

"I  know  that  you  have  had  nothing  that  can  be  called  life. 
I  have  known  that  a  long  time.  I  want  to  change  all  that." 

"You?" 

Her  eyes  lifted  to  his. 

"Yes." 

"But  why?" 

"It's  very  simple.  Just  because  I  love  you." 

Her  eyes  were  a  little  awed,  even  incredulous. 

"But  it's  so  strange.  You  hardly  know  me,  and  I'm " 

"You  are  you.  What  more  does  a  man  need  to  say?  My 
dear,  I  think  I  fell  in  love  with  you  that  very  first  day  I  saw 
you  at  'Vernors.'" 

The  awed  light  in  her  eyes  increased. 

"It's  very  wonderful.  I  don't  know  what  to  think,  what 
to  say  to  you.  And  everything  has  been  so  horrible  just  now." 

"That  is  why  I  want  to  carry  you  right  away  from  it." 

She  walked  on  in  silence,  her  eyes  looking  into  the  deeps 
of  the  woodland. 

"But  I  don't  know  whether " 

"Of  course  you  don't,  just  yet." 

"I  mean — it  isn't  fair  to  you." 

His  arm  tightened. 

"Connie,  don't  go  making  new  problems.  I  am  going  to  be 
here,  near  you,  like  something  a  little  better  than  a  big 
brother.  Don't  worry  that  too  sensitive  soul  of  yours;  nothing 


204  THE  WHITE  GATE 

is  so  bad  as  we  imagine.  But  you  are  going  to  make  me  a 
promise  before  we  get  out  of  this  wood." 

He  stopped  and  held  her  back,  looking  down  at  her  very 
dearly. 

"Now,  don't  be  scared." 

"But  what  am  I  to  promise?" 

"To  live.  Never  come  down  to  this  damned  pool  again. 
It's  a  wizard's  looking-glass,  an  infernal  lure!" 

He  felt  her  breath  come  and  go. 

"What  have  you  done  to  your  hand?" 

"Never  mind  my  hand.  Promise.  I'll  help  you  to  keep  it." 

Her  lips  moved,  and  her  voice  was  almost  a  whisper. 

"Yes,  I  will  promise,"  she  said. 


(CONSTANCE  had  to  suffer  all  the  sordid  impertinences 
that  follow  such  a  death  as  that  of  Dora  Brent.  The  next 
day — a  Sunday — brought  specimens  of  the  common  herd  up 
from  the  village,  those  indefatigable  and  barbarous  fools  who 
stare  over  gates  and  peer  through  hedges  with  insatiable  curi- 
osity. As  for  the  inquest  which  Mr.  Crumwell,  the  coroner, 
found  necessary  to  hold  at  the  "King's  Head"  inn  at  Roymer, 
it  would  have  passed  off  considerately  enough  but  for  the  self- 
importance  of  a  little  grocer  from  a  neighbouring  village  who 
was  inclined  to  play  the  blow-fly.  This  person,  blessed  with  a 
nagging  beard,  yellow  teeth,  and  a  notion  that  he  was  ex- 
ceptionally acute,  chose  to  assume  that  "the  business  was  very 
fishy."  He  did  not  like  the  girl's  attitude,  taking  the  cold  calm 
and  the  reserve  of  a  sensitive  spirit  to  be  indicative  of  callous- 
ness, perhaps  something  else.  Wet  woe,  blubberings,  a  general 
emotional  disorder,  appeal  to  the  gross  sentimentality  of  the 
bourgeois  mind,  a  mind  which  cannot  understand  silence  in 
marble,  or  the  frozen  reservations  of  a  sensitive  pride.  The 
grocer,  like  many  men  of  his  class,  had  a  most  absurd  idea  of 

205 


206  THE  WHITE  GATE 

his  public  responsibilities,  wearing  them  with  the  unction  of 
some  petty  mayor  wearing  his  robes.  He  began  to  ask  the  wit- 
nesses questions,  questions  that  insinuated  that  things  were 
not  as  they  should  be. 

Crumwell,  a  large  man  with  much  experience  in  dealing 
with  self-important  jurymen,  put  out  a  big  hand  and  wiped 
the  blow-fly  off  the  window  pane.  Snubbed  for  the  moment, 
the  grocer  waited  till  Garside  was  called,  and  then  flew  in 
again  with  officious  buzzings.  Garside,  who  had  been  sitting 
next  Skelton,  and  swearing  under  his  breath,  used  a  foot 
where  Crumwell  had  used  a  hand,  and  some  of  the  jurymen 
sniggered. 

The  grocer,  bumptious  as  ever,  tackled  Garside  afterwards 
in  the  brick-paved  forecourt  of  the  inn. 

"One  moment,  doctor,  please.  I  should  like  to  state  that  I 
am  not  at  all  satisfied." 

Now  Garside  had  a  temper  that  blazed  on  occasions. 

"Oh,  you  go  to  hell,"  he  said;  "you  go  to  hell  with  a  pound 
of  your  own  candles." 

Dora  Brent  was  buried  in  Roymer  churchyard,  with  an 
Irish  yew  standing  like  a  black  sentinel  at  the  head  of  her 
grave.  Garside  and  Skelton  so  contrived  things  that  gaping 
curiosity  was  reduced  to  a  minimum,  and  Constance,  who 
insisted  on  going  through  the  ordeal,  was  spared  being  treated 
like  an  interesting  freak.  She  drove  back  with  Mary  to  Furze 
Cottage — Mary,  who  had  been  studying  Skelton  all  through 
the  service  with  critical  and  curious  eyes. 

"Who  was  the  tall  man  with  the  doctor?" 

Constance  stared  out  of  the  window. 

"Oh,  that  was  Mr.  Skelton,  an  engineer." 

And  Mary  had  to  be  contented  with  this  bare  outline. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  207 

Mental  suffering  often  has  an  accumulative  effect,  no  change 
being  noticeable  until  the  beam  of  the  balance  swings  over 
suddenly,  and  the  poise  of  years  is  reversed.  It  fell  to  Mary 
Hall  to  notice  the  change  in  Constance  Brent,  a  deepening 
of  that  apathetic  calm  that  had  carried  her  through  all  the 
detestable  formalities  of  those  last  few  days.  Constance  gave 
the  impression  of  having  been  emptied  of  all  vitality,  and  both 
soul  and  body  were  growing  bloodless  and  cold. 

All  through  the  day  following  the  funeral  she  sat  in  a  chair 
by  the  fire,  staring  at  nothing  in  particular,  motionless  and 
inert.  A  dressmaker  came  up  from  Roymer  to  fit  some  of  the 
mourning  that  had  been  ordered,  nor  had  the  woman  ever 
dealt  with  so  plastic  and  yet  so  lifeless  a  figure.  Constance 
went  through  the  process  of  being  fitted  without  speaking, 
without  betraying  a  flicker  of  feminine  interest,  without  even 
troubling  to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass. 

The  woman  remarked  upon  it  when  Mary  let  her  out  of 
the  house. 

"She's  going  to  be  ill." 

Mary,  none  too  pleased  at  having  her  own  fears  amplified, 
was  somewhat  abrupt. 

"She's  just  tired  out,  and  so  would  you  be  if  you  were 
her." 

But  there  was  more  than  weariness,  more  than  mere  physi- 
cal lassitude  in  Constance's  case.  Our  ideas  of  life  become 
more  complex  the  more  deeply  we  look  into  life,  Nature  life 
in  the  sea,  in  the  slime,  in  the  supernormal  phenomena  of 
consciousness.  We  no  longer  dogmatise  so  readily,  or  pat  our- 
selves with  pride  over  long  words  and  explanations  that  ex- 
plain nothing.  What  Mary  beheld  in  Constance  Brent  was  a 
suggestion  of  the  soul  withdrawing  from  the  body,  or  of  the 


208  THE  WHITE  GATE 

vital  fire  dying  down  until  its  red  core  dwindled  to  a  solitary 
spark. 

She  was  perfectly  rational,  perfectly  calm,  not  in  the  least 
emotional.  In  fact,  an  utter  lack  of  emotion  was  the  most 
striking  point  about  her.  There  were  no  weeping  fits,  no 
nerve  storms,  but  rather  a  frozen,  level  surface,  without 
shadow  effects,  without  expression. 

Mary  began  to  be  worried.  It  was  with  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty that  she  could  persuade  Constance  to  take  anything  to 
eat. 

She  tried  the  stimulus  of  a  little  coaxing. 

"Won't  you  go  out,  Miss  Connie,  and  get  some  fresh  air? 
I'll  put  on  my  hat  and  come  with  you." 

"You  can  open  the  window,  Mary;  that  will  give  me  all 
the  air  I  want." 

Even  her  voice  betrayed  a  damping  of  the  vibrations  and  a 
loss  of  tone. 

"Miss  Connie,  dear,  you  mustn't  take  it  to  heart  too  much 
and  mope." 

"I  am  not  moping." 

Which  was  true,  most  ominously  true.  If  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  spiritual  anaesthesia,  Constance  Brent  was  sinking 
into  such  a  state.  Her  senses,  too,  were  chilled,  and  had  lost 
their  delicate  responsiveness. 

A  piece  of  clumsiness  on  her  own  part  forced  this  fact  very 
vividly  on  Mary's  mind.  When  carrying  in  a  big  bowl  of 
chrysanthemums  she  tripped  over  the  edge  of  the  carpet,  and 
the  bowl  crashed  to  the  ground.  Constance,  who  was  lying 
on  the  sofa,  never  flinched  or  turned  her  head. 

"Miss  Connie,  I'm  so  sorry." 

"Has  it  broken?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  209 

Mary  stared.  Broken  indeed!  The  crash  would  have  jarred 
most  people's  nerves. 

She  began  to  piece  up  these  impressions,  and  to  look  for 
Garside's  evening  visit.  He  had  promised  to  come  up  and  look 
into  Dora  Brent's  affairs,  and  go  through  the  papers  that  she 
had  kept  in  the  Sheraton  bureau  in  the  dining-room. 

Garside  drove  up  in  his  motor  about  half-past  eight,  and 
left  the  car  standing  just  inside  the  white  gate.  Constance  had 
gone  to  bed  early,  and  Mary,  who  had  been  waiting  and 
listening,  had  the  front  door  open  before  Garside  reached  it. 

"Well,  how  are  things?" 

"I've  got  everything  ready  for  you,  sir.  Miss  Constance  has 
given  me  the  keys.  She's  gone  to  bed,  and  asked  you  to  excuse 
her." 

Mary  had  made  elaborate  preparations.  A  good  fire  burnt 
in  the  dining-room  grate,  and  she  had  arranged  a  reading 
lamp  on  a  table  so  that  the  light  fell  full  upon  the  bureau. 
Under  the  lamp  were  what  Mary  considered  to  be  appro- 
priate accessories — a  siphon,  a  whisky  decanter  and  a  glass, 
pen  and  ink,  a  box  of  matches,  an  ash  tray,  and  a  stick  of 
sealing-wax.  A  big  wastepaper  basket  stood  ready  to  accept 
anything  in  the  way  of  a  donation. 

"You  mean  me  to  be  comfortable!  You  might  bring  your 
work  and  sit  in  here;  there  may  be  some  things  I  shall  want 
to  ask  you  about." 

Mary  went  for  a  petticoat  she  was  hemming,  and  when 
she  returned  Garside  had  unlocked  the  flap  of  the  bureau  and 
was  beginning  to  look  through  the  various  papers.  And  a 
strange  conglomeration  of  things  he  found  there — dress  pat- 
terns, old  letters,  several  photographs  tied  up  together  with  a 
piece  of  green  ribbon,  a  number  of  pages  torn  out  of  a  diary, 


210  THE  WHITE  GATE 

a  cavalry  officer's  gilt  spur,  receipted  bills,  and  a  roll  of  news- 
paper cuttings.  It  was  in  a  recess  under  a  dummy  partition 
that  he  found  the  papers  and  documents  that  were  of  im- 
portance. 

"How  has  Miss  Brent  been?" 

He  threw  the  question  over  his  shoulder. 

"That's  just  what  I  want  to  talk  about,  sir." 

She  began  to  describe  all  that  she  had  noticed  about  Con- 
stance, and  to  describe  it  so  arrestingly  that  Garside  forgot 
the  dead  woman's  papers  and  sat  listening. 

"It  might  be  what  people  used  to  call  dying  of  a  broken 
heart." 

"Do  you  know,  that  is  a  very  fine  description  of  a  case?" 

"I  wish  it  wasn't  so  fine,  sir." 

The  ash-tray  on  the  table  caught  Garside's  eyes,  and  his 
hand  went  into  a  side-pocket  for  his  pipe. 

"I  have  seen  cases  like  this  before.  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
that  physic  is  no  good.  She  wants  taking  right  out  of  the  old 
life  into  a  new  world." 

Mary  watched  him  pathetically. 

"And  who's  to  do  it,  sir?  We've  got  rid  of  the  dog,  and 
I've  packed  all  her  things  away — the  books  and  clothes  and 
all  that.  But  I  don't  suppose  you'll  find  that  Miss  Constance 
has  been  left  much  money,  and  who  is  there  to  do  anything 
for  her?" 

Garside  smiled  as  he  lit  his  pipe. 

"Do  you  know  that  there  is  someone  who  wants — well,  to 
marry  her?" 

"Bless  me,  no,  doctor!" 

"There  is." 

"Who?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  211 

"Mr.  Skelton." 

"What,  that  tall,  brown-faced  gentleman  with  the  glittery 
eyes?" 

"That's  the  man.  But  not  a  word  of  all  this  to  anyone. 
Understand?" 

He  was  so  brusque  and  fierce  for  the  moment  that  Mary's 
hands  stopped  sewing. 

"Yes,  sir.  But  what  kind  of  man " 

"If  I  had  a  sister,  Mr.  Skelton's  the  man  I  should  like  her 
to  marry." 

"If  it  could  only  happen,  sir.  She's  just  like  one  who's 
drowning,  and  wants  dragging  out  of  the  water." 

Garside  turned  back  to  the  bureau,  and  for  an  hour  or  more 
there  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  the  rustling  of  papers, 
the  scratching  of  a  pen,  and  the  asking  and  answering  of  an 
occasional  question.  Garside  was  quite  the  man  of  affairs  in 
his  knowledge  of  the  ways  and  means  of  life,  being  far  more 
than  the  mere  surgeon  and  physician,  probably  because  many 
of  his  patients  had  persisted  in  regarding  him  as  an  ency- 
clopaedia of  treatment  even  when  the  ills  were  other  than  ills 
of  the  flesh.  He  had  helped  to  pack  young  prodigals  off  to 
the  Colonies,  had  advised  on  wills,  arranged  marriages,  and 
prevented  one  or  two  divorces.  Moreover,  he  had  acquired  a 
certain  knowledge  of  the  working  of  all  those  formalities 
which  the  legal  gentlemen  so  carefully  conceal  from  the  eyes 
of  the  public,  desiring  to  keep  men  blind  in  order  that  there 
may  be  no  loss  of  fees.  And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Dora  Brent's 
estate  was  not  very  complex,  even  pathetically  simple  so  far 
as  her  daughter  was  concerned. 

Garside  had  it  all  before  him  after  working  for  a  little 
more  than  an  hour.  Dora  Brent  had  left  a  will,  properly 


212  THE  WHITE  GATE 

signed  and  witnessed,  and  all  that  she  had  to  leave  she  had 
left  to  Constance.  The  tragic  part  of  it  was  that  the  estate 
amounted  to  next  to  nothing. 

He  told  Mary  the  truth. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  nothing  but  the  furniture  and 
about  fifty  pounds  at  the  bank.  Her  pass-book  was  made  up 
only  two  weeks  ago.  This  annuity  of  hers,  of  course,  dies  with 
her.  Do  you  know  if  she  ever  saved?" 

"She  was  not  the  woman  to  save,  sir." 

"There  is  no  record  of  any  saving.  I  don't  suppose  a  sale 
would  fetch  more  than  three  hundred  pounds.  Twelve  pounds 
a  year,  or  so.  You  see?" 

Mary  nodded.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  half-past  ten. 

"I'll  come  up  to-morrow  and  see  what  I  can  make  of  the 
child.  I  must  have  a  talk  with  her.  And  if  Mr.  Skelton  should 
come  up  here,  you  will  understand?" 

"I  may  say  as  I'm  no  fool,  sir,  and  I'd  do  anything  to  see 
her  happy." 

Garside  drove  up  again  next  morning,  and  saw  with  his 
observant  and  kindly  cynical  eyes  far  more  than  even  Mary 
had  seen.  The  compassionate  manhood  in  him  was  shocked. 
When  he  left  he  drove  straight  to  Skelton's  cottage  at  Roymer 
Thorn. 

Skelton  had  paid  an  after-breakfast  visit  to  the  Stranges. 
A  long  talk  with  Catharine  Strange  had  heartened  him,  for 
what  woman  of  wisdom  cannot  help  the  cleverest  man  when 
he  happens  to  be  in  love  with  a  woman? 

"Teach  her  to  laugh,"  she  had  said,  "for  laughter  is  not 
far  from  tears.  And  don't  think  me  a  materialist  if  I  tell 
you  that  one  can  do  much  for  a  woman  by  letting  her  look 
into  shop  windows.  The  shop  window  of  life!  Oh,  yes,  we  are 


THE  WHITE  GATE  213 

not  superwomen.  A  new  dress  or  a  new  pair  of  shoes  do 
count.  Do  you  take  me?" 

Skelton  had  laughed,  in  love  with  the  admirable  humanism 
that  underlay  her  words. 

"I  think  I  realise  something  of  that." 

Garside  found  him  in  his  workshop,  shaping  a  piece  of 
rough  brass  on  his  lathe.  He  took  his  pipe  from  between  his 
teeth,  laid  it  down  on  the  bench,  and  looked  at  Garside  with 
humorous  earnestness. 

"Hallo!" 

"It  is  hallo!  What  do  you  mean  by  using  that  wrist  of 
yours?" 

"There's  nothing  much  wrong  now,  and  I  felt  like  a  cat 
when  a  storm's  coming.  You  have  been  up  there?" 

Garside  sat  down  on  a  stool  and  told  Skelton  all  that  he 
had  to  tell. 

"She  has  been  left  practically  with  nothing." 

"I'm  not  looking  for  any  such  assets.  I  prefer  my  woman 
naked,  so  far  as  property  is  concerned.  But  she  herself?" 

"I  have  told  you.  I  have  seen  something  of  the  kind  once 
or  twice  before.  I  might  say  she  is  dying  very,  very  slowly 
for  the  lack  of  the  will  to  live." 

Skelton  picked  up  his  pipe  and  relit  it. 

"Then,  it  is  to  the  rescue.  You  think " 

"I  believe  it  is  the  one  hope.  If  you  could  give  her  a  new 
vitality." 

"I  can  do  it,  old  man.  By  God,  I  believe  I  can  do  it!" 


Chapter  Twenty-four 


J  KELT  ON  went  out  into  the  fir  woods  at  the  end  of  the 
meadow  and  walked  up  and  down  one  of  the  woodland  ways, 
feeling  that  he  must  be  utterly  alone  for  a  while  before  going 
up  to  Roymer  Heath.  As  Garside  had  said,  it  was  a  case  for 
a  rescue,  nor  was  Skelton  young  enough  to  overlook  the  fact 
that  there  may  be  danger  to  the  rescuer  as  well  as  to  the 
rescued.  Put  crudely  it  would  have  appeared  to  most  men 
of  the  world  as  a  piece  of  absurd  quixotry.  "What,  marry  a 
girl  with  no  money,  no  position — or,  rather,  a  very  anomalous 
position — and  such  a  heritage!  My  dear  chap,  it's  preposterous." 

Perhaps  the  most  vital  quality  in  life  is  the  quality  of 
courage — the  fine  texture  of  the  timber  without  which  nothing 
is  durable,  nothing  certain.  Most  men  are  cowards  because  of 
their  selfishness  or  their  materialism,  fearing  loss  of  prestige, 
loss  of  profit,  loss  of  comfort,  loss  of  a  cheerful  and  indolent 
acquiescence  in  some  sort  of  creed.  The  higher  courage  is  very 
rare,  that  imaginative  valour  that  believes  that  most  things 
are  possible  if  we  persist  in  believing  in  their  possibility. 

Moreover,  no  man  can  be  more  tender,  more  compassionate, 

214 


THE  WHITE  GATE  215 

more  blessed  with  a  fine  understanding  of  the  various  values 
of  life,  than  the  man  who  has  to  work  and  to  struggle  and 
to  suffer.  Pain  is  a  spiritual  food,  especially  when  a  rich  vi- 
tality has  triumphed  over  pain.  As  for  Skelton,  he  had  this 
higher  courage  that  flashes  into  audacious  tenderness  and 
looks  beyond  into  the  gold  of  truth.  He  was  neither  little,  care- 
ful, nor  conventional,  and  he  was  in  love. 

About  three  in  the  afternoon  Skelton  started  to  walk  to 
Furze  Cottage,  when  the  thin  and  slanting  November  sunlight 
threw  all  the  autumn  shades  into  rich  relief.  In  the  fir  woods 
the  bracken  was  a  mass  of  gold,  the  black  trunks  rising  out 
of  it  to  ascend  into  an  atmosphere  of  finer  and  more  ethereal 
gold.  There  was  a  sense  both  of  pallor  and  of  wistfulness 
everywhere,  with  the  blood  of  the  summer  sprinkled  upon 
hedgerows  and  on  the  bosoms  of  the  wind-blown  thorns.  The 
grass  had  an  almost  blue  tint  under  the  softly  yellowing  sky, 
and  the  dark  heather  was  a  sea  of  bronze. 

Skelton  turned  in  at  the  white  gate,  noticing  the  wheel 
marks  in  the  gravel  and  the  forlorn  look  that  November  brings 
to  the  most  conventional  of  gardens.  The  rank  lawns  were 
stippled  over  with  worm-casts  and  littered  with  blown  leaves, 
and  the  borders,  emptied  of  dahlias  and  geraniums,  looked 
sour  and  neglected. 

Skelton  was  surprised  by  Mary's  smile  when  she  opened  the 
front  door  to  him.  It  was  neither  sly  nor  significant,  and  yet 
suggested  an  intimate  and  welcoming  approval. 

"Is  Miss  Brent  in?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Will  she  see  me?" 

"Won't  you  come  in,  sir?" 

She  was  shrewd  enough  to  guard  against  the  intervention 


2i6  THE  WHITE  GATE 

of  any  possible  whim  by  showing  Skclton  straight  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  Constance  was  lying  on  the  sofa  with 
two  cushions  under  her  head  and  shoulders. 

She  was  dressed  plainly  in  black,  and  the  red  cushion  under 
her  head  had  the  effect  of  making  her  look  more  white  and 
ethereal.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  have  grown  larger,  lethargic,  and 
more  shadowy,  and  her  lips  had  lost  the  red  of  the  brier 
berry.  She  turned  her  head,  and  looked  at  Skelton  as  though 
she  were  neither  surprised  at  seeing  him  nor  moved  in  the 
very  least  by  his  presence.  Her  eyes  did  not  brighten,  nor 
was  there  any  kindling  of  the  blood  in  her. 

To  see  her  lying  there  so  white  and  still  in  her  black  dress 
made  Skelton's  heart  go  out  to  her  with  a  great  yearning. 
The  sunlight  that  slanted  in  fell  very  gently  upon  her.  He 
was  shocked  by  her  lifelessness,  by  the  ominous  change  in  her, 
by  the  very  pose  of  her  hands,  lying  palms  upwards  as 
though  in  surrender. 

"Don't  get  up." 

He  drew  a  chair  round  and  sat  down  so  near  to  her  that 
he  could  stretch  out  a  hand  and  touch  her  if  he  wished.  His 
coming  had  brought  no  ruffling  of  the  surface.  She  lay  there, 
inert  and  relaxed,  watching  him  as  though  nothing  he  could 
either  say  or  do  would  matter  very  gready. 

She  managed  to  speak. 

"I  hope  your  wrist  is  better?" 

"I  have  forgotten  all  about  it.  My  health's  a  negligible  quan- 
tity just  at  present.  How  have  you  been  sleeping?" 

In  the  spirit  he  bent  over  her  with  intimate  tenderness. 
Voice  and  eyes  were  the  voice  and  eyes  of  love. 

"I  can't  sleep  much." 

"We  must  change  all  that." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  217 

"I  am  wondering  whether  it  matters.  I  don't  know  whether 
I  want  to  go  on  living." 

"It  matters  to  me,  and  to  you.  I  want  you  to  marry  me." 

Her  eyes  met  his  with  no  flash  of  desire  or  flicker  of  con- 
fusion. They  were  empty — eyes  that  might  have  had  no  soul 
behind  them.  She  appeared  to  accept  his  words  as  a  mathe- 
matical brain  might  accept  a  formula,  understanding  it  with 
unemotional  lucidity,  and  recognising  its  suggestiveness. 

"I  can't  marry  you." 

She  spoke  slowly,  dully. 

"You  must  see  that  I  can't  marry  you.  It  would  not  be 
fair." 

Skelton  sat  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his  lips 
smiled. 

"You  think  it  would  not  be  fair?" 

"To  you." 

"To  me?  And  why?" 

She  lay  absolutely  still,  her  eyes  half  closed. 

"Because  you  must  know  that — my  mother — that  I " 

He  broke  in  with  a  rush  of  fierce  chivalry. 

"Whatever  may  have  happened  in  the  past  is  dead.  You 
and  I  are  alive.  What  is  dead  does  not  concern  me.  I  refuse 
to  recognise  it." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  feeling  the  vibrations  of  his  voice 
in  the  air  about  her. 

"But  that's  not  all.  I  shall  be  very  poor — I'm  not  strong — 
and  people —  It  wouldn't  help  you  if  you  married  me.  Be- 
sides  " 

"Well?" 

"I  think  it's  only  out  of  pity." 


2i8  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Skelton's  right  hand  swept  out  and  covered  one  of  hers. 

"Connie,  look  at  me." 

Her  head  turned  on  the  red  cushion. 

"I  love  you.  Do  you  hear  that?  I  love  you." 

She  sighed  unconsentingly,  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"It's  so  strange.  But  I  can't  listen." 

He  bent  over  her. 

"Dear  heart,  you  are  ill  and  very  weary.  I  understand;  I 
understand  it  all  so  well  because  you  are  so  very  dear  to  me. 
You  feel  that  you  don't  care,  that  you  can't  bother  to  care, 
that  life  is  all  grey  and  cold.  Yes,  but  I  am  going  to  change 
all  that.  I  can  give  you  back  life,  teach  you  to  laugh  again.  Oh, 
I  know,  you  have  been  cooped  up  here,  but  you  will  come 
right  away  with  me  into  a  new  world,  a  world  where  things 
happen  and  the  people  are  alive." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  looked  at  him,  and  seemed  to  be 
waiting. 

"Yes,  that's  not  all.  Dear,  I  lave  you,  not  selfishly,  not 
roughly,  not  for  a  week  or  a  month.  I  love  the  you  in  you — 
not  the  mere  woman.  I  tell  you  I  can  make  you  happy.  Don't 
doubt  it.  I  have  known  what  it  is  to  suffer,  and  therefore  I 
know  what  happiness  should  be." 

The  shine  of  his  eyes  seemed  to  kindle  her  for  the  mo- 
ment, but  a  tired  wistfulness  stole  over  her  face.  She  moved 
one  hand,  and  let  it  lie  palm  upwards. 

"I  know  you  are  good.  It's  so  sad.  I  can't  feel — feel  any- 
thing. It's  as  though  I  were  dead.  And " 

He  bent  nearer  as  though  catching  the  whispered  words  of 
one  who  lay  dying. 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  think  I  could  care.  No,  no;  don't  think  me  hor- 


THE  WHITE  GATE  219 

rible;  I  am  trying  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I  don't  feel  alive 
enough  to  care.  It  would  be  like  your  marrying  someone  who 
was  only  half  alive." 

He  looked  steadily  at  her  a  moment,  and  then  gave  a  deep 
and  inarticulate  cry.  His  arms  went  round  her,  lifting  her  up 
with  all  the  strength  of  his  love.  One  hand  was  under  her 
head.  He  held  her  very  close  to  him,  and  spoke  with  his 
lips  near  to  hers. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  can  give  you  life — breathe  life  into  you. 
Look  at  me;  open  your  eyes." 

She  gazed  at  him,  dazed,  wondering. 

"I — I  can't.  It's  so  horrible — so  horrible  not  to  be  able  to  feel." 

"I  will  teach  you  to  feel." 

"But  it  might  not  come." 

"It  shall  come." 

He  kissed  her  upon  the  mouth.  "There's  life  in  that.  Oh, 
my  beloved,  you  shall  live  and  not  die." 


Chapter  Twenty-five 


J.  HE  windows  of  Roymer  were  blinking  their  eyes  in  a 
storm  of  wind  and  rain;  and  Garside,  buttoned  up  in  his 
mackintosh,  came  out  of  one  of  the  cottages  above  the  bridge, 
and  glanced  with  disgust  at  the  grey  and  scolding  sky. 

"You  hag,  and  I  was  going  to  shoot  to-day." 

He  paused  with  an  observing  eye  on  a  tall  figure  that  was 
marching  over  the  bridge  with  an  energy  that  outfaced  the 
weather.  Skelton  was  walking  as  though  he  had  put  a  hand 
on  the  wind's  chest,  and  was  pushing  it  backwards  out  of 
his  way.  His  brown  mackintosh  was  nearly  black  with  the 
soaking  it  had  had,  and  he  had  pulled  the  peak  of  his  cap 
well  down  to  keep  the  rain  out  of  his  eyes. 

Garside  smiled. 

"Nothing  matters  at  such  a  time.  One  even  forgets  the 
weather." 

He  moved  across  to  intercept  the  striding  figure,  and  the 
eyes  that  looked  at  him  from  under  the  peak  of  the  cap  were 
like  the  eyes  of  a  sea-king  steering  his  warship  towards  some 
land  of  adventure. 


220 


THE  WHITE  GATE  221 

"Hallo!" 

"I  was  coming  your  way.  I  have  just  had  tea  with  Mrs. 
Strange." 

"Come  along,  then.  Any  news?" 

"Only  that  I  hope  to  cease  to  be  a  bachelor." 

A  gust  of  wind,  sweeping  down  between  two  houses,  lifted 
Garside's  hat,  and  he  had  to  chase  it  across  the  green.  He 
came  back  looking  grieved  and  thoughtful. 

"Did  the  weather  ever  consider  a  man's  dignity?  So  you 
have  made  up  your  mind?" 

"I  have  asked  her  to  marry  me." 

"Yes." 

"She  refused." 

"Refused  you!  And,  then " 

"I  am  going  to  marry  her." 

"By  refusing  to  be  refused?" 

"Just  so." 

Garside's  eyes  glittered. 

"That's  the  song  to  sing;  use  the  force  of  suggestion.  If  I 
might  put  in  a  word!" 

"Well?" 

"Get  her  out  of  this  infernal  climate.  Go  south — anywhere. 
A  winter  in  England  would  be  all  against  her  in  her  present 
state." 

"That's  just  what  I  mean  to  do." 

They  turned  in  at  Garside's  gate  where  the  larch  poles 
were  rocking  in  the  wind. 

"That's  why  I  went  to  see  Catharine  Strange.  Oh,  she's 
fine;  there's  a  touch  of  genius  about  her.  But  I  can  tell  you, 
Garside,  it  means  a  plunge  for  me." 

"You  mean " 


222  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Financially.  My  future  is  balanced  on  a  knife-edge,  and 
I  have  got  to  leave  it  at  that.  You  know  I  have  a  little  capital, 
and  I  am  going  to  sell  five  hundred  pounds  of  stock." 

"And  plunge  with  it?" 

"Yes;  bring  back  her  joy  in  life,  and,  by  God!  I  don't 
grudge  it.  She  has  never  known  what  life  is,  and  I  am  going 
to  fill  up  the  blanks  for  her.  The  Rue  de  la  Paix,  Monte 
Carlo,  olives  and  orange  groves — those  white  towns  by  the 
blue  sea.  The  dull  and  so-called  conscientious  people  may 
talk  about  extravagant  selfishness,  cities  of  sin,  and  all  that. 
What  rot!  A  good,  riotous,  spendthrift  holiday  does  us  all  the 
good  in  the  world.  There  are  some  fools  who  seem  to  think 
it  immoral  and  cowardly  to  get  out  of  this  island  for  the  sake 
of  a  little  sunshine.  It's  like  much  of  their  religion,  grubbing 
along  like  wood-lice.  Well,  I'm  out  for  a  gamble,  if  you  like 
to  call  it  that,  and  the  stake  is — her  health." 

They  were  in  Garside's  den  by  now,  and  lighting  up  their 
pipes. 

"You  are  a  brave  man." 

"No,  I'm  in  love.  And  do  you  know,  old  man,  it  makes  my 
heart  turn  to  hot  blood  to  see  her  so  white  and  empty  of  the 
life  that  ought  to  be  hers.  I  tell  you  it  makes  me  want  to  be 
an  extravagant  fool,  to  give  her  every  blessed  thing  money 
can  buy.  I  suppose  the  common-sense  people  would  say  that 
I'm  on  the  high  road  to  spoiling  her." 

"Leave  the  common-sense  people  out  of  the  question.  They 
are  no  use  out  of  their  own  rut.  I  have  known  champagne 
do  more  good  than  all  the  gentian  and  soda  in  London." 

"Champagne!  The  thing's  symbolical  of  all  that  I  mean. 
She  wants  laughter,  glitter  and  beauty.  Oh,  I  know.  And  she 
shall  have  it.  What  is  money  beside  the  desire  to  live?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  223 

Garside  nodded  his  big  head  emphatically. 

"You  have  come  by  a  bit  of  inspiration." 

Skelton  had  kept  away  from  Furze  Cottage  that  day,  and 
had  contented  himself  with  writing  Constance  a  lover's  letter, 
such  a  letter  as  a  man  can  write  only  when  he  has  outgrown 
the  arrogances  and  crudities  of  youth.  There  were  moments 
of  laughter  here  and  there,  delicate  and  subtle  touches  like  the 
glimmer  in  the  eyes  of  a  love  that  cannot  be  hid.  He  tried 
to  sweep  her  along  with  him  in  a  rush  of  tender  optimism, 
flattered  her  a  little,  spoke  of  his  delight  in  her  music,  con- 
fessed that  he  had  listened  surreptitiously,  and  that  "Mel- 
isande"  had  haunted  him  and  sung  herself  into  his  heart. 
For  Skelton  was  in  the  happy  position  of  a  man  who  could 
write  all  that  he  felt,  knowing  at  the  same  time  that  he  was 
no  fool  for  feeling  as  he  did.  It  was  no  case  of  sex-blindness 
on  his  part,  no  infatuation  for  some  crude,  raw  girl,  for  Con- 
stance Brent  was  a  "sensitive"  in  the  subtlest  sense,  with  a  fine 
taste  in  music,  colour,  and  books.  Folded  up  in  that  slight 
figure,  and  looking  out  from  those  listening  eyes,  was  the 
virginal  soul  of  a  very  adorable  woman — one  of  those  rare 
creatures  who  seem  to  understand  life  intuitively,  who  seize 
an  impression  with  the  swiftness  of  light,  and  who  are  far 
too  finely  strung  for  the  dull  and  complacently  domestic  notes 
of  the  average  woman.  She  had  reticence,  insight,  and  no  gush 
of  adjectives  that  served  to  play  upon  any  subject,  from  the 
Alps  to  hairpins.  Skelton,  like  most  men  of  some  originality, 
had  no  use  at  all  for  women  in  the  bulk.  They  bored  him, 
especially  when  they  tried  to  talk  man's  talk  and  did  it 
abominably.  Men  of  originality  are  concerned  only  with  one 
particular  woman,  or  with  two  or  three  of  the  exceptions.  The 


224  THE  WHITE  GATE 

sex,  especially  when  it  ceases  to  be  sexual,  is  a  temptation 
towards  blasphemy. 

But  towards  Constance  Brent  his  instinct  had  flown  unerr- 
ingly. She  was  above  the  ruck,  a  spirit  with  pinions,  untouched 
by  the  taint  of  the  parlour.  He  believed  most  passionately  in 
his  power  to  heal  her.  The  soul  was  there;  it  only  needed 
sunlight,  atmosphere,  space. 

He  wrote  to  John  Cuthbertson  also,  telling  him  frankly  how 
matters  stood. 

"As  the  sporting  journalist  would  put  it,  'Jonathan,  be 
thrustful,'  and  shoot  hard  at  goal.  I  can  leave  Doyle  to  you; 
but  after  this  extravagance  in  quest  of  the  child's  health,  I 
shall  be  raging  round  for  an  income.  I  put  great  faith  in 
'Jerry';  and  one  or  two  of  those  other  little  creations  of  mine 
ought  to  bring  in  money.  My  present  income  from  patent 
royalties  and  interest  on  capital  is  about  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  year,  and  as  I  told  you,  I  am  selling  out  five  hun- 
dred pounds  of  stock.  So,  you  see,  I  shall  be  in  a  temper  to 
use  my  horns. 

"As  for  your  offer  with  regard  to  my  coming  back  to  you 
at  the  works,  I  have  an  idea  that  I  shall  accept  it,  unless 
'Jerry'  develops  so  much  power  that  I  shall  be  persuaded  to 
set  up  a  little  experimental  place  of  my  own.  The  results  will 
come  to  you  first  whatever  happens. 

"I  will  write  again  in  a  day  or  so." 

Roymer  Heath  looked  dreary  enough  when  Skelton  emerged 
from  the  fir  woods  on  his  way  to  Furze  Cottage  the  follow- 
ing afternoon.  The  landscape  was  a  wet,  bleary  grey,  with 
rain  driving  before  a  vicious,  westerly  wind,  and  the  gorse 
and  the  fir  trees  rocking  and  crying  as  though  in  pain.  The 
white,  rough-cast  walls  of  the  cottage  were  discoloured  with 


THE  WHITE  GATE  225 

damp,  and  the  laurel  hedge  along  the  southern  side  of  the 
garden  shook  as  the  gusts  struck  it  in  a  succession  of  waves. 

"I  must  get  her  out  of  this  at  all  costs,"  that  was  the  chief 
thought  the  landscape  inspired  in  him. 

He  was  wondering  what  her  mood  would  be,  but  pre- 
ferring to  gauge  it  for  himself  he  asked  Mary  no  questions 
when  she  opened  the  door. 

"Wretched  weather!" 

"It  is  that,  sir.  Miss  Constance  is  in  the  drawing-room. 
Perhaps  you  will  stay  to  tea?" 

"Perhaps  I  shall." 

Constance  Brent  was  lying  on  the  sofa  in  front  of  the  fire, 
and  to  Skelton  it  seemed  that  she  had  faded  perceptibly  even 
in  the  passing  of  two  days.  He  had  one  moment  of  intoler- 
able dread,  a  dread  lest  he  should  be  counting  too  much  upon 
the  persuasive  power  of  his  own  vitality;  but  his  love  threw 
out  the  conviction  that  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  fail. 

She  held  out  a  hand  to  him,  and  he  noticed  how  cold  it 
was. 

"Why,  you  ought  to  be  warmer  than  this." 

"I  don't  feel  cold." 

He  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down,  conscious  that  her  eyes 
were  watching  him  with  a  glimmer  of  troubled  appeal.  They 
were  eyes  that  were  schooling  themselves  to  refuse  some  very 
precious  thing.  She  shivered  when  he  kissed  her  hand. 

"It  was  a  terrible  business,  keeping  away  yesterday,  but 
I  wanted  you  to  have  that  letter  and  to  think  over  it.  I  have 
been  making  all  sorts  of  magnificent  plans." 

She  stiffened  resistingly  as  she  lay. 

"I  can't.  I  have  been  thinking  it  all  over.  It  would  not  be 
fair." 


226  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"You  have  still  got  that  prejudice  in  your  dear  head?  Tell 
me  what  is  troubling  you." 

"It's  difficult — so  difficult  to  explain.  I  feel  that  I  could  care, 
only  that  something  is  dragging  me  down  and  down  into  deep 
water,  into  a  sort  of  stagnation.  And  how  could  I  think  of 
letting  you " 

He  bent  over  her. 

"Connie,  you  need  saving.  I  am  here,  in  the  water  with 
you,  and  I  shall  not  let  you  sink." 

Her  eyes  widened,  and  out  of  the  darkness  came  an  up- 
welling  of  light.  Her  lips  quivered,  and  the  white  throat  grew 
tremulous. 

"Don't  let  me  drown!  Oh,  my  dear,  save  me  from  myself." 

She  flung  out  her  arms  and  was  caught  up  into  his,  and 
held  with  her  head  against  his  shoulder.  Her  whole  body 
shook  convulsively,  and  she  clung  to  him  with  her  hands. 

"Save  me!  I  can't  promise  anything.  I  feel  that  the  waters 
are  closing  over  my  head." 

He  put  a  hand  under  one  cheek,  and  turned  her  face  to 
his. 

"Little  woman,  I  am  strong  enough." 

She  burst  into  tears. 

"I  don't  know — oh,  I  don't  know.  I  feel  so  weak  and  dead, 
just  as  if  I  had  been  ill  for  years  and  years.  Why  is  it?  Why?" 

"Because  you  have  been  starved  of  life.  Lie  here  in  my 
arms,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  our  life  shall  be." 

"Dear-dear " 

She  caressed  him  with  sudden,  pathetic  tenderness. 

"Dear,  must  you  marry  me — must  you  risk  all  this?" 

"Do  I  look  very  scared?" 

"It's  so  wonderful.  Oh,  my  dear,  make  me  live,  make  me 
live!" 


Chapter  Twenty-six 


THlCHARD  S  KELT  ON  was  the  very  man  for  such  a 
lover's  enterprise,  for  his  vitality  was  still  the  vitality  of  youth, 
capable  of  adventurous  enthusiasm,  while  all  that  he  did  was 
tempered  with  the  tenderness  and  insight  of  a  manhood  that 
has  mellowed  and  matured.  Just  as  he  could  concentrate 
on  the  creation  of  a  machine,  so  he  concentrated  all  the  powers 
of  his  personality  upon  recreating  the  mental  health  of  the 
woman  he  loved,  planning  each  delicate  and  chivalrous  de- 
tail, and  thinking  for  her  with  a  sensitiveness  that  was  fem- 
inine as  well  as  male. 

All  the  poignant  richness  of  such  a  June  was  in  his  blood, 
and  his  heart  was  enlarged  within  him.  The  earth  was  full 
of  her  voice,  and  his  compassion  was  a  perfume  from  the  gar- 
dens of  the  dawn.  Yet  he  was  immensely  and  actively  prac- 
tical, crowding  into  a  few  days  matters  that  would  have  kept 
most  men  meditating  for  weeks.  He  wrote  letters,  rushed  up 
to  town,  saw  friends,  lawyers,  business  men,  carried  a  Con- 
tinental time-table  and  a  French  dictionary  in  his  pocket, 
bought  rings  at  a  jeweller's  in  Oxford  Street,  made  inquiries 
about  tickets,  trains  and  hotels.  The  furniture  at  Furze  Cot- 

227 


228  THE  WHITE  GATE 

tage  was  to  be  sold,  and  the  money  invested  in  Constance's 
name,  as  soon  as  Dora  Brent's  will  could  be  proved.  Skelton 
had  the  gift  of  being  able  to  press  other  people  into  his  service, 
and  of  inspiring  them  with  a  kind  of  vicarious  enthusiasm. 
He  had  Mary  mending  his  socks,  John  Cuthbertson  forcing 
the  financing  of  "Jerry,"  Mrs.  Strange  canvassing  acquaint- 
ances in  the  South  of  France.  His  vitality  was  contagious,  and 
seemed  to  infect  the  common  circumstances  of  life,  so  that 
they  appeared  to  get  themselves  done  in  a  way  that  was 
miraculous. 

Mrs.  Strange  was  a  most  sympathetic  and  active  partisan. 
She  had  friends  everywhere,  and  could  give  sound  advice  upon 
most  places  under  the  sun,  her  personal  experiences  having 
stretched  from  Malta  to  Japan,  and  she  knew  a  good  deal 
about  climates  and  their  psychological  effect  upon  different 
people. 

She  had  been  writing  letters  on  Skelton's  behalf,  and  one 
morning  he  had  a  note  from  her. 

Come  and  see  me.  I  think  I  have  found  the  very  thing  to  suit 
you. 

And  so  she  had. 

In  discussing  travel  with  him  her  choice  had  tended  to- 
wards the  South  of  France,  and  she  had  justified  it  by  her 
common  sense  and  her  descriptive  charm. 

"It  may  sound  too  much  like  'good  form,'  but  because  a 
number  of  people  congregate  on  a  certain  strip  of  sea  coast, 
it  does  not  follow  that  everybody  is  'just  so.'  You  will  never 
get  away  from  vulgar  fools,  unless  you  go  to  Greenland; 
and,  after  all,  they  are  amusing.  You  want  variety.  I  remember 
the  first  time  I  went  to  San  Remo.  Oh,  yes,  I  thrilled  per- 


THE  WHITE  GATE  229 

ceptibly.  People  sneer  at  the  big  hotels,  but  if  you  want  a  little 
world  in  miniature  to  laugh  over,  why,  there  you  are;  and  I 
can  still  chuckle  over  my  little  comedies.  Besides,  the  journey 
is  so  easy.  As  for  scenery — well,  as  I  loathe  people  who  gush 
over  scenery,  I  will  leave  it  for  you  to  look  at." 

Skelton  found  her  printing  zinc  flower  labels,  using  a 
pointed  piece  of  wood  as  a  pen,  and  acid  for  ink.  Her  husband 
had  gone  shooting,  and  his  copy  of  the  morning  paper  re- 
mained crumpled  up  in  an  arm-chair  beside  the  fire. 

"That  is  Peter's  one  bit  of  dissipation,  his  one  lapse  into 
disorder.  He  says  it  crumples  up  the  sheets  ready  for  the 
maids  to  light  the  fire  with,  and  so  is  justified  by  its  utility. 
I  have  threatened  to  order  two  papers.  Now,  about  my  dis- 
covery." 

Skelton  sat  down  in  Captain  Strange's  chair,  after  removing 
the  paper  and  smoothing  it  into  shape. 

"I  am  most  tremendously  grateful  to  you." 

"And  I  to  you;  I  have  just  heard  from  some  people  who 
have  a  little  furnished  villa  at  Mentone;  they  want  to  let  it 
for  two  months,  as  they  have  to  be  at  home  during  December 
and  January.  It  is  quite  mignon,  well  above  the  sea  on  the 
east  bay,  with  a  garden  and  a  fine  view.  There  is  a  factotum 
in  residence  who  can  speak  English  and  French,  cook,  and 
shop.  I  remember  you  said  something  about  a  villa." 

"I  think  it  will  be  better  for  her  at  first.  We  can  move  into 
an  hotel  later  if  the  mood  takes  us.  This  sounds  excellent, 
but  what  about  terms?" 

"I  think  they  are  very  reasonable." 

In  ten  minutes  Skelton  had  heard  all  that  he  wanted  to 
hear,  and  was  sitting  at  a  desk  by  the  window  writing  a  letter 
that  was  an  offer  to  take  the  Villa  Proserpine.  Visions  of  orange 


230  THE  WHITE  GATE 

and  lemon  trees,  of  mimosa  in  bloom,  of  palms  and  olives 
passed  across  the  paper  as  he  wrote.  He  heard  the  wind  in  the 
cypresses,  and  the  Aleppo  pines,  and  the  soft  foaming  of  the 
blue  sea  against  the  sunlit  rocks. 

A  week  later  he  and  Constance  Brent  were  to  be  married 
by  special  license  at  the  little  chapel  of  ease  in  Tidworth 
Valley.  Skelton  had  chosen  the  place  because  of  the  charm 
of  its  isolation,  and  because  it  was  served  by  a  man  for  whom 
he  had  a  very  great  liking.  The  marriage  was  to  be  as  quiet 
and  as  simple  as  possible;  no  one  knew  anything  about  it 
save  Garside  and  the  Stranges. 

The  evening  before  his  marriage  Skelton  walked  up  to 
Furze  Cottage  with  Constance's  wedding  present  in  his  pocket. 
Mary's  smile  was  a  benedictory  embrace,  for  Skelton  had 
drawn  her  into  the  conspiracy  in  a  way  that  had  flattered 
her  heart.  He  and  Constance  were  to  spend  a  day  or  two  at 
his  cottage  before  going  up  to  town  on  their  way  to  France, 
and  Mary  was  to  spend  those  last  few  days  looking  after  Con- 
stance and  helping  Skelton  to  pack. 

"You  take  a  temporary  situation  for  six  months,"  Skelton 
had  said  to  her;  "we  shall  want  you  with  us  when  we  come 
back." 

"I  shall  be  ready,  sir.  It's  good  of  you  to  let  me  stay  with 
Miss  Connie." 

On  this  evening  before  her  marriage  Constance  Brent  had 
come  by  a  faint  colour,  and  there  was  a  restless  brightness  in 
her  eyes.  The  shaded  lamp  had  been  turned  low  and  left  in 
a  far  corner  of  the  room,  so  that  the  firelight  possessed  her  as 
she  sat  in  a  low  chair  before  the  fire.  Her  eyes  were  shy  of 
Skelton  as  he  drew  up  a  chair  beside  her,  for  to-morrow  they 


THE  WHITE  GATE  231 

were  to  be  brought  so  near  to  each  other,  and  perhaps  she  was 
a  little  afraid. 

He  had  come  to  her  with  the  feeling  that  marriage  might 
appear  in  the  light  of  a  sacrifice  to  a  sensitive  girl,  and  that 
a  sense  of  sacrilege  might  be  the  dominant  emotion  if  the 
male  spirit  were  rough  and  tactless.  And  all  his  manhood  was 
very  gentle  towards  her,  and  wholly  triumphant  over  the  more 
primitive  self. 

"I  wonder  how  you  will  like  this." 

He  took  the  case  out  of  his  pocket,  opened  it,  and  showed 
her  a  hoop  of  sapphires  and  diamonds. 

"I  got  Mary  to  steal  a  little  ring  of  yours  for  the  size. 
Now,  let's  try  it  on." 

He  smiled  as  he  took  her  hand. 

"Put  that  most  important  of  fingers  out  straight.  That 
seems  just  as  it  should  be." 

She  looked  at  the  ring,  and  at  her  own  hand,  and  then  ten- 
tatively at  him. 

"How  good  you  are!" 

"Don't  start  with  such  a  misconception;  I'm  human.  As 
for  those  stones,  I  put  a  language  of  my  own  to  them.  The 
diamonds  are — well,  guess." 

"I  don't  know." 

"Constancy  and  understanding." 

"Yes." 

"And  the  sapphires:  sympathy  and  no  secrets." 

He  kissed  her  fingers,  and  then  with  sudden  tenderness 
took  her  face  between  his  hands  and  turned  it  to  his. 

"Look  at  me.  Now,  the  truth.  Are  you  afraid?" 

She  hesitated. 


232  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"A  very  little?  Dear  heart,  don't  you  know  me  yet?  Now, 
listen!" 

He  spoke  words  to  her  that  only  the  most  intimate  of  mo- 
ments can  inspire — words  whose  simple  and  elemental  tender- 
ness touched  the  very  core  of  her  womanhood.  She  flushed 
up  and  closed  her  eyes,  and  remained  thus  for  an  instant, 
breathing  very  deeply. 

"I  thought " 

"Are  you  afraid  now?" 

Her  eyes  flashed  open  to  his,  and  her  arms  went  round 
his  neck,  clinging  with  a  kind  of  fierce  and  desperate  gratitude. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  never  thought  it  possible.  Oh,  my  dear, 
my  dear!" 

Frost  was  in  the  air,  and  the  sun  shone  in  a  clear  sky  when 
Constance  entered  the  car  that  had  drawn  up  outside  Furze 
Cottage.  She  was  dressed  in  a  simple  tailor-made  dress  of 
black,  with  a  big  black  hat  shading  her  pale  face.  Mary  fol- 
lowed, sitting  well  apart  in  her  own  corner  as  though  there 
was  something  sacred  and  untouchable  about  a  bride,  and 
the  car  started  over  Roymer  Heath. 

»  Constance  sat  in  silence,  looking  out  over  the  late  November 
landscape,  with  the  Rusper  Woods  lying  black  and  sinister 
under  the  southern  sky,  and  holding  "Melisande's  Pool" 
hidden  in  their  depths.  A  white  calm  possessed  her.  Mary, 
on  the  watch  for  any  flicker  of  dubious  emotion,  any  sign  of 
reluctance  or  panic,  kept  smoothing  down  her  gloves  and 
looking  at  herself  and  Constance  in  the  mirror  made  by  the 
front  glass  panels  of  the  car. 

Presently  she  spoke. 

"He's  a  good  man,  a  real  man,  Miss  Connie." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  233 

Constance  did  not  turn  her  head. 

"I  am  wondering  whether  I  can  make  him  happy.  The 
giving  seems  all  on  his  side." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  don't  think  that.  It  would  be  his  way;  he's 
one  of  those  as  has  the  wisdom  of  love  in  him." 

"Is  he  different  from  other  men?" 

"There  be  two  men  in  every  man,  my  dear,  and  it  just  de- 
pends on  which  of  'em  is  master.  In  most  cases  it's  the  beast 
as  rules,  but  with  him  the  beast  doesn't  dare  show  his  nose 
for  fear  of  being  trodden  on.  Don't  you  worry;  just  cling 
tight  to  him,  and  let  him  carry  you  through." 

Tidworth  Valley  was  a  valley  of  oaks,  a  great  pool  of 
bronze  under  an  azure  sky.  The  road  wound  down  under  the 
overhanging  boughs  of  these  glowing  trees,  for  the  leaves 
were  hanging  late  this  autumn,  to  end  in  a  little  garden  of 
life  and  of  death  set  thick  with  yews  and  cypresses,  and 
planted  with  rose  bushes  that  made  it  a  place  of  perfumes  in 
June.  The  ancient,  red-roofed  chapel  with  its  buttresses  and 
tiled  roof  stood  full  in  the  sunlight,  with  the  flaming  oaks 
covering  the  shallow  sides  of  the  valley,  so  that  the  day  was 
a  day  of  gold. 

Constance  had  a  sudden  feeling  that  it  was  all  unreal  as  the 
car  drew  up  outside  the  porch.  Skelton  was  there,  reaching 
out  a  brown  hand  to  open  the  door,  and  smiling  at  her  rally- 
ingly.  Garside  stood  waiting  in  the  porch,  and  she  remembered 
noticing  that  he  was  wearing  his  ordinary  clothes.  Behind 
him  she  could  see  Catharine  Strange  and  her  husband. 

The  stillness  of  it  all  struck  her — the  stillness  of  the  woods, 
of  the  building,  of  the  people.  She  had  her  arm  in  Skelton's, 
and  they  moved  like  figures  in  a  dream,  without  substance 
and  without  sound.  She  wondered  why  she  felt  so  calm  over 


234  THE  WHITE  GATE 

it,  she  who  was  pledging  so  much,  risking  a  man's  happiness 
and  her  own. 

Someone's  boots  squeaked,  and  she  smiled  over  the  break- 
ing of  her  dream  image  as  a  broad  and  very  solid  little 
man  came  out  by  the  vestry  door  and  stood  at  the  chancel 
steps  with  a  face  like  a  rising  summer  sun.  She  felt  an  instant's 
pressure  of  Skelton's  arm  on  hers.  Then  they  were  standing 
a  little  apart,  with  Garside  and  Mary  Hall  beside  them. 

Somehow  the  little  clergyman  insisted  on  making  the  cere- 
mony seem  real  to  her.  She  lost  her  feeling  of  vagueness  and 
of  wonder,  for  the  man's  personality  was  sincere  and  his  voice 
made  the  words  carry.  She  felt  Skelton  at  her  side,  felt  a 
stream  of  life  flowing  from  him  and  enveloping  her. 

It  was  over,  and  they  were  in  the  car  together,  driving  back 
under  the  banners  of  the  oaks.  They  held  hands  and  were 
silent,  feeling  that  they  were  one  spirit  and  one  flesh. 

It  was  part  of  Skelton's  passion  for  delicate  details  that  he 
should  have  hired  a  piano  for  three  days. 

"Rest  a  little,  and  then  sing  to  me." 

"I'm  not  tired,  Dick." 

"Then  sing." 

She  sang  for  nearly  an  hour,  while  he  sat  on  the  couch  by 
the  window  watching  her  with  eyes  that  shone. 

"I'm  so  out  of  practice." 

"Nonsense!  I  never  heard  you  sing  better.  It's  the  soul  in 
the  voice  that  counts." 

She  came  across  and  knelt  down  at  his  knees. 

"Perhaps  I  could  not  help  it,  dear." 

And  he  kissed  her. 

Mary  had  never  before  served  such  a  dinner  as  she  served 


THE  WHITE  GATE  235 

that  night  in  the  cottage  sitting-room,  Mrs.  Gingham  assisting 
with  un jealous  awe.  There  were  candles  with  red  shades  on 
the  table,  bowls  of  hothouse  flowers,  choice  fruit,  and  little 
dishes  of  olives  and  sweets.  The  dinner  itself  ran  to  eight 
courses,  and  they  drank  champagne  out  of  goblets  of  Venetian 
glass. 

Mrs.  Gingham  had  to  describe  it  all  to  her  neighbours. 

"I  just  peeked  in,  and,  my  gracious,  weren't  it  pretty!  The 
little  lady  with  her  eyes  all  bright  and  her  cheeks  pinky  like, 
and  Mr.  Skelton  looking  that  proud.  Yes,  and  he's  'ad  a  wreath 
of  flowers  made  and  'ad  it  put  on  'er  'ead;  all  white  they  was, 
and  they  made  'er  black  hair  look  fine.  Must  say  I  shouldn't 
'ave  minded  kissing  of  'er,  and  'im  too.  'E's  the  most  master- 
ful gen'leman  as  ever  I  see." 

There  was  a  little  bedroom  reached  by  a  passage  leading 
from  the  sitting-room,  and  at  ten  o'clock  Skelton  held  out 
his  hand  to  his  wife.  His  eyes  said  "Come." 

The  white  quilt  of  the  single  bed  had  been  strewn  with 
flowers,  and  a  posy  of  white  roses  lay  on  the  pillow.  Skelton 
looked  round  the  room  with  a  touch  of  awe. 

"Sleep  well,  dear  heart." 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  hesitating. 

"Dick,  I-I " 

He  caught  her  to  him  suddenly. 

"No,  I'll  come  to  you  gradually.  My  love  is  so  very  big  a 
thing  to  me." 

She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder  for  a  moment. 

"How  is  it  you  understand?" 

"Perhaps  because  I  care  so  much." 

He  went  out  softly,  closing  the  door  after  him,  and  there 


236  THE  WHITE  GATE 

was  a  thickness  in  his  throat.  He  found  Mary  hovering  round 
the  table  in  the  sitting-room  pretending  to  clear  away. 

"I  have  sent  her  to  bed;  I  think  she  has  everything." 

Mary  appeared  to  be  struggling  to  say  some  one  particular 
thing. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  saw  to  it." 

She  faced  round  on  him  with  impulsive  frankness. 

"God  bless  you,  Mr.  Skelton,  sir.  God  bless  you." 

Words  choked  her,  and  a  rush  of  tears  came  as  she  blun- 
dered out  into  the  kitchen. 

Skelton  stood  awhile  on  the  hearthrug,  smoking,  and  look- 
ing at  some  of  the  new  and  feminine  things  that  had  come 
into  his  life.  There  was  a  cloak  hanging  on  the  door,  and  a 
vanity-bag  lay  on  the  sofa.  Under  the  chair  she  had  used  he 
saw  a  lace  handkerchief  lying.  He  went  and  picked  it  up, 
looking  at  it  with  eyes  that  smiled.  "God  keep  you,  dear." 

He  passed  to  his  own  room  utterly  happy. 


Chapter  Twenty-seven 


L  HEY  left  Dover  in  the  drizzle  of  a  December  day,  with  a 
raw  south-west  wind  blowing,  and  England  looking  like  a 
grey  pile  of  desolation  heaped  against  the  northern  sky.  Skel- 
ton  had  taken  a  private  cabin  for  his  wife,  but  before  the  boat 
started  they  walked  about  on  deck  together,  watching  the 
people  coming  on  board  and  settling  themselves  and  their 
hand  luggage  in  the  red  deck-chairs  and  along  the  seats.  The 
sense  of  stir  and  of  movement  were  utterly  new  to  Constance, 
as  were  the  types  of  people  who  crowded  the  boat — people 
many  of  whom  could  lead  spacious  lives  and  yet  had  dull  and 
unimaginative  faces.  There  was  a  breath  of  adventure  in  the 
way  the  wind  ruffled  her  hair,  and  her  eyes  were  bright  and 
intensely  interested  in  all  this  breezy  wayfaring  life. 

The  half-humorous  dignity  of  her  husband's  poise  struck 
her,  and  in  the  midst  of  these  multifarious  people  she  seemed 
to  see  him  in  a  new  light,  and  his  figure  grew  taller  and  his 
keen  eyes  more  searching.  It  was  as  though  she  had  other 
men  against  whom  she  could  measure  him,  and  he  profited 
by  the  contrast,  looking  bigger,  more  quietly  sure  of  him- 

237 


238  THE  WHITE  GATE 

self,  more  suggestive  of  strength.  She  felt  proud  and  a  little 
afraid. 

"I  can  hardly  believe  that  I  am  going  to  be  in  France  in 
an  hour." 

"That's  a  certainty,  unless  the  boat  goes  down.  I  can  re- 
member the  thrill  I  had  when  I  first  steamed  into  Dieppe  and 
saw  the  great  crucifix  at  the  harbour  mouth." 

"Have  you  noticed,  Dick,  what  a  lot  of  old  women  there 
are?" 

"There  always  are,  dear;  they  are  chronic." 

"So  many  of  them  look  the  odd  women." 

"In  more  ways  than  one.  It's  a  dreary  life." 

"Very." 

She  thrilled,  and  there  was  still  a  quiver  of  fear.  Was  it 
possible  that  she  could  hold  and  keep  this  happiness  ?  Was  she 
big  enough? 

"Need  I  go  into  the  cabin?" 

"If  you  stay  outside  you  will  see  only  a  lot  of  rather  yellow 
people  sitting  about  and  looking  aged  and  ugly.  And  there  are 
beasts  who  smoke!  I  want  you  to  rest." 

The  hawsers  had  been  cast  off,  and  the  boat  was  gliding 
towards  the  harbour  mouth,  where  a  stretch  of  dirty  grey 
water  ridged  with  foam  tumbled  beyond  the  breakwaters.  It 
looked  like  being  a  rough  crossing,  with  the  sky  as  grey  as 
the  sea. 

"I  should  go  and  lie  down,  dear.  I'll  come  and  tuck  you  up." 

She  acquiesced.  The  boat  had  begun  to  pitch  and  roll  by 
the  time  Skelton  had  the  rug  round  her  and  a  pillow  under 
her  head. 

"What  sort  of  sailor  are  you?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  have  never  been  tried." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  239 

"Delightful  innocence.  I'm  going  to  have  a  last  look  at  the 
dirty  Dover  cliffs.  To-morrow  we  shall  be  looking  at  a  different 
sort  of  sea." 

Constance's  innocence  did  not  survive  that  first  passage.  She 
was  ill,  most  dolefully  ill,  and  hated  herself — if  she  had  the 
power  to  hate  anything.  Skelton,  after  one  look,  had  kept 
away,  wise  in  his  generation,  and  knowing  that  in  her  heart 
of  hearts  she  would  be  grateful  to  him  for  being  blind.  He 
marched  up  and  down,  interested  in  people  who  were  not  in 
the  least  interested  in  themselves  for  that  particular  hour.  He 
was  vaguely  annoyed  by  the  way  some  of  the  men  persisted  in 
smoking,  for  Skelton  was  none  too  good  a  sailor  himself,  and 
knew  that  when  one  is  on  the  edge  of  nausea  there  is  no 
more  insufferable  reek  than  the  smell  of  tobacco. 

"What  selfish  beasts  we  are!  I  believe  some  of  these  beggars 
would  smoke  beside  their  mother's  death-bed,  especially  if 
she  were  long  in  dying.  I'd  make  smoking  on  a  Channel  boat 
a  blackguard's  offence." 

He  did  not  go  back  to  the  deck  cabin  till  the  boat  was 
entering  Calais  harbour,  for  he  was  one  of  those  rare  men  who 
can  travel  imperturbably,  and  who  did  not  push  for  the 
gangway. 

"Hallo!  It's  all  over." 

She  was  just  sufficiently  recovered  to  feel  ashamed. 

"Oh,  Dick " 

"There,  we've  had  a  beastly  crossing;  you've  been  one  among 
many.  There's  no  hurry;  we'll  let  the  sheep  shove  through  the 
gap,  and  then  go  through  the  Customs  with  dignity.  After 
that,  hot  soup." 

"Shan't  we  miss  our  train?" 


240  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  And  if  we  did,  the  sky  wouldn't  fall  in. 
Now,  I'll  be  lady's  maid." 

His  imperturbability  and  his  good  temper  were  most  ad- 
mirable travelling  companions,  and  the  orgy  of  absurd  excite- 
ment was  over  in  the  douane  by  the  time  that  Skelton  and 
his  wife  reached  it,  with  a  French  porter  carrying  their  hand 
luggage.  Skelton  had  the  knack  of  getting  things  done  quickly, 
calmly,  and  without  any  appearance  of  effort.  People  scuttled 
to  and  fro,  while  this  most  reposeful  Englishman  refused  to 
be  hurried,  and  refused  to  let  his  wife  be  hurried,  because  the 
hands  of  a  clock  were  made  to  move. 

Constance's  youth  and  colour  came  back  to  her.  They  had 
taken  possession  of  their  sleeping  compartment,  and  when 
they  returned  to  it  from  the  buffet  it  seemed  like  home. 

"We  don't  have  to  turn  out  again?" 

"No,  except  for  a  drive  across  Paris.  We  pick  up  the  train 
again  at  the  Gare  de  Lyon." 

"A  drive  across  Paris!  I  shall  love  that.  Dick,  my  hair!" 

She  was  looking  at  herself  in  one  of  the  little  mirrors,  and 
putting  up  the  black  strands  with  white  fingers. 

"What  a  fright!" 

"Nonsense!  I'll  look  round  while  you  get  yourself  into  what 
you  consider  to  be  order." 

In  two  minutes  she  joined  him  in  the  corridor,  smiling  and 
alive. 

"Can't  we  walk  up  and  down  the  platform  for  a  few  min- 
utes? I  do  love  seeing  the  people;  it's  just  life." 

"We  have  got  another  ten  minutes.  It  won't  tire  you?" 

"No." 

He  helped  her  out  at  the  end  of  the  coach,  and  they  enjoyed 
the  life  of  the  station  together. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  241 

"You  are  getting  on  splendidly,"  he  said  to  her.  "Just  wait 
till  we  get  into  the  sunshine  down  by  the  blue  seas." 

Darkness  blotted  out  the  bare  grey  country  as  the  train 
held  on  for  Amiens,  and  at  Amiens  the  one  possible  event  ap- 
peared to  be  the  wasting  of  a  franc  on  a  most  unutterable  cup 
of  tea.  Skelton  brought  out  his  French  money,  and  arrang- 
ing the  coins  like  counters  on  the  travelling  table,  gave  Con- 
stance a  mock  solemn  lecture  upon  the  relative  values  of  the 
different  coins.  He  made  a  collection  and  asked  her  to  pass 
him  her  vanity-bag  in  which  she  kept  her  purse. 

"You  ought  to  have  a  little  French  money  by  you.  I'll  fit  you 
out  with  more  when  we  get  down  South." 

It  was  a  sweet  bitterness  to  her  to  take  his  money. 

"I'll  be  very  careful  with  it,  Dick." 

"Careful!  You  goose!  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  present 
you  with  just  twopence  halfpenny  a  week!" 

Then  came  Paris,  a  galaxy  of  lights  and  of  towering  black 
houses,  with  windows  like  yellow  ladders  going  up  into  the 
sky.  At  the  terminus  they  climbed  into  a  taxi  and  were  whirled 
across  to  the  Gare  de  Lyon  by  a  driver  who  drove  like  a  dead 
chauffeur  let  out  of  hell  for  one  night.  Constance  was  very 
much  on  the  edge  of  the  seat,  holding  her  breath  and  Skel- 
ton's  hand,  as  the  car  whisked  in  and  out  and  missed  other 
vehicles  by  inches.  She  was  not  sorry  when  they  reached  the 
Gare  de  Lyon,  left  their  hand  luggage  in  the  cloak-room,  and 
made  their  way  to  that  restaurant  where  the  walls  are  more 
decorative  than  the  dinner.  Constance  had  moments  of  shy 
self-consciousness,  but  there  were  such  novel  exclamation 
marks  everywhere  that  her  eyes  had  to  wander.  A  little  private 
of  Zouaves  sat  at  the  next  table,  and  she  was  interested  in  his 


242  THE  WHITE  GATE 

uniform  till  the  soldier  became  so  aggressively  interested  in 
return  that  Constance  felt  embarrassed. 

They  found  the  train  waiting  for  them,  and  Skelton  was  for 
sending  his  wife  to  bed.  She  had  suddenly  grown  tired,  after 
the  fashion  of  highly  strung  people,  for  her  senses  had  been  so 
played  upon  by  a  hundred  new  impressions  that  her  vitality 
gave  out  at  last,  like  a  candle  having  a  coil  of  wire  brought 
down  sharply  about  the  flame. 

It  may  be  said  that  no  personality  has  any  possibilities  un- 
less it  is  sensitised  by  a  fine  humility.  The  lower  the  scale  of 
social  intelligence,  the  more  cocksureness  and  egotistical  gar- 
rulity are  to  be  found.  A  fool  is  full  of  instructions  and  of 
advice,  and  the  dullest  women  are  those  who  are  most  re- 
spectably self-satisfied.  Humility,  an  inward  and  sensitive  hu- 
mility, gives  the  shadow  effects  in  the  scheme  of  a  personality. 
Without  it  the  result  is  all  flat,  stupid,  unsympathetic  glare. 

Constance  had  this  fine  humility  almost  morbidly  devel- 
oped, and  it  showed  itself  that  night  as  she  lay  listening  to 
the  roar  of  the  wheels  and  the  tapping  of  the  little  metal  bob 
of  the  lamp-shade  against  the  glass  of  the  lamp.  She  had  tried 
to  get  to  sleep  and  failed,  and  all  the  strange  new  possibilities 
of  life  crowded  in  on  her,  challenging  her  with  an  oppressive 
complexity. 

Her  husband  was  asleep  so  near  to  her,  and  yet  she  felt 
that  he  was  far  away — so  much  beyond  her  and  above  her 
in  power  and  cleverness.  He  loved  her,  and  her  new  pride  in 
him  brought  forth  incredulity  and  fear.  Could  she  keep  his 
love,  deserve  it — she,  a  raw  and  inexperienced  girl,  none  too 
strong  in  body  and  almost  too  sensitive  of  soul?  The  cord 
of  the  day's  happiness  seemed  to  break  as  she  lay  there  in  the 


THE  WHITE  GATE  243 

semi-darkness,  letting  her  down  into  a  pit  of  self-conscious 
doubt  and  dread. 

A  great  loneliness  stirred  in  her.  She  got  up  and  sat  leaning 
forward,  looking  at  Skelton  yearningly.  He  was  sleeping,  and 
not  for  one  moment  did  she  think  of  waking  him;  but  she 
bent  over  the  man  who  was  her  husband  and  spoke  to  him 
with  a  strange,  whispering  tenderness,  letting  her  hands  hover 
close  to  his  face. 

"Oh,  my  dearest,  love  me,  love  me  always.  I  will  try — I 
will  try." 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  throat. 

"Ought  I  to  have  let  you  marry  me?  You  are  so  much 
bigger  and  cleverer  than  I  am.  Oh,  my  dear,  if  you  should 
regret  it  afterwards!" 

She  lay  down  again,  still  tortured  by  the  suggestions  of 
her  own  humility.  And  presently  she  fell  asleep,  so  that  when 
the  train  stopped  at  Dijon,  and  Skelton  started  up  and  looked 
at  her,  she  neither  stirred  nor  woke. 

He  bent  over  her  and  just  touched  her  hair  with  the  tips 
of  his  fingers. 

"That's  good.  Sleep  right  through  into  the  sunshine." 

It  was  an  orange  dawn,  with  frost  on  the  ground  and  the 
cypresses  black  against  a  glowing  sky,  and  opalescent  greys 
and  blues  in  the  western  horizon.  Constance  woke  when  they 
were  near  Avignon,  and  her  first  consciousness  was  shot 
through  with  a  dread  of  some  vague  and  unrealisable  loss. 
She  glanced  across  at  Skelton,  and  saw  his  profile  clear  against 
the  dawn  as  he  sat  at  one  of  the  windows  and  looked  out  at 
the  flat-roofed  southern  houses  and  the  haze  of  golden  light 
over  the  fields. 

He  turned  sharply  and,  coming  across,  kissed  her. 


244  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Here  we  are  in  the  sunshine." 

Her  heart  rushed  out  to  him,  but  that  morning  greeting 
could  not  dispel  the  dread  of  her  own  insufficiency. 

The  day's  journey  along  the  southern  coast  brought  a  new 
world  before  her,  a  world  such  as  she  might  have  imagined  in 
her  dreams.  The  great  hills  and  the  blue  of  the  sea,  the  red 
pinnacles  of  the  Esterelles,  the  dense  green  of  the  clustered 
pines,  the  vineyards  and  reed  fences,  the  queer  box-like  houses 
with  the  red,  pink,  or  white  walls,  the  grey  shimmer  of  olives 
— she  saw  all  these,  yet  with  a  premonition  of  pain.  The  more 
exotic  beauty  of  the  farther  coast  roused  in  her  a  sad  yearning, 
and  her  eyes  grew  tired.  Aloes  and  agaves,  oranges,  lemons, 
carob  and  eucalyptus,  palms  and  mimosa,  the  white-walled, 
red-roofed  villas,  the  grey  cliffs  hung  with  colour,  the  blue 
stretches  of  sea,  surf  girdling  black  headlands,  islands  lying 
out  in  a  haze  of  mystery — she  saw  them  all  with  eyes  that 
wondered  and  grew  weary.  The  splendour  of  it  all  crushed 
her  somewhat,  made  her  feel  smaller,  cruder,  and  more  unes- 
sential. It  was  a  strange  world,  and  she  was  in  the  midst  of 
strangeness,  with  a  sense  of  oppression  at  her  heart. 

She  made  an  effort  to  be  animated  when  Skelton's  enthusi- 
asm flashed  out  at  a  glimpse  of  Monaco. 

"Look  at  that." 

"Isn't  it  wonderful?" 

She  felt  so  tired  and  ineffectual,  and  her  voice  sounded  flat 
in  her  own  ears.  Skelton  looked  at  her  understandingly. 

"Scenery,  you  know,  is  just  a  matter  of  how  one  feels. 
Hallo,  here's  Monte  Carlo!  The  station  looks  rather  clean  and 
small  for  so  much  notoriety.  We  won't  moralise." 

"No.  It's  so  hopeless  to  moralise,  isn't  it?" 

He  turned  to  her  suddenly. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  245 

"You  are  tired  to  death,  I  know.  Shut  your  eyes  and  refuse 
to  look  at  another  thing.  You  will  see  things  differently  to- 
morrow." 

She  let  herself  sink  back  upon  his  sympathy. 

"I  shall  get  so  strong  and  well  down  here,  Dick.  I  must 
in  the  sunshine." 

"Of  course  you  will.  We  are  going  to  have  the  time  of  our 
lives." 

She  wondered. 


Chapter  Twenty-eight 


•3  KELT  ON  strolled  across  the  terrace  of  the  Villa  Proser- 
pine and  stood  by  the  balustrade,  looking  out  towards  the  sea. 
It  was  a  still  and  sunny  morning  late  in  January,  and  the 
clock  in  the  bell  tower  of  the  old  town  church  had  just 
smitten  the  hour  of  eight.  The  Villa  Proserpine  was  high 
enough  upon  the  hill-side  for  its  terrace  and  windows  to  gain 
a  full  view  of  the  sea  and  harbour  and  the  old  town,  with 
its  battered  colours  and  tall,  flat-roofed  houses.  One  had  to  go 
higher  to  see  into  the  western  bay  with  Cap  Martin  a  dark 
ridge  of  pines,  agate  bounding  a  half  circle  of  lapis  lazuli.  Be- 
hind towered  the  hills,  grey  cragged,  splashed  with  red  stains, 
silent  and  very  still. 

Wallflowers  were  in  bloom,  and  roses  out  on  the  arbour 
at  the  end  of  the  terrace.  The  autumn-sown  grass  covered  the 
little  green  plots  with  vivid  green  needles,  and  there  were 
tufts  of  freesias  growing  between  the  rough  stones  of  the  edg- 
ing. On  the  balustrading  were  pots  of  yellow  crassula,  glau- 
cous leaved  aloes,  and  geranium.  A  palm  threw  a  thin  shade 
over  the  centre  of  the  terrace,  and  bees  were  at  work  making 
January  seem  like  June. 

246 


THE  WHITE  GATE  247 

Below  the  terrace  a  mimosa  was  coming  into  bloom,  and 
Skelton  had  spread  beneath  him  groves  of  oranges  and  lemons, 
with  a  grey-leaved  olive  here  and  there,  a  fountain  of  silver 
spray  in  the  sunlight.  Rank  green  grass  and  herbage  caught 
the  light  that  sifted  through  the  trees,  and  was  splashed  by 
it  into  many  depths  of  gold.  Bougainvillea,  roses,  and  huge 
climbing  geraniums  covered  the  face  of  the  retaining  wall  of 
the  terrace.  Below  were  other  gardens,  other  white-walled,  red- 
roofed  villas,  with  palms  and  cypresses,  and  fruit  trees  falling 
away  towards  the  blue  pavement  of  the  sea.  Wallflowers  and 
narcissi  scented  these  gardens.  On  the  right,  above  the  old 
town  out  jutting  on  its  spur,  stood  the  cemetery,  with  its  white 
tombs  and  black  cypresses,  a  little  acropolis  of  the  dead,  hung 
between  sea  and  sky. 

Skelton  lit  a  pipe  and  stood  at  gaze,  his  eyes  steady  and 
thoughtful  under  the  down-turned  brim  of  his  felt  hat.  He 
had  had  his  coffee  and  rolls  in  the  rose  arbour,  for  the  morn- 
ing was  very  warm.  Though  his  eyes  looked  towards  the  sea, 
his  inward  vision  was  turned  for  the  moment  to  the  green 
shutters  that  were  still  closed  over  the  window  of  Constance's 
bedroom.  He  was  going  down  to  the  town  for  a  stroll,  and 
would  be  back  again  by  nine  to  take  her  up  her  breakfast. 

Skelton's  stroll  ended  at  a  tobacco  shop  near  the  post  office. 
He  bought  flowers,  anemones  and  violets  at  a  shop  in  the 
Avenue  Felix  Faure,  and  made  his  way  back  through  the 
long  and  narrow  street  of  the  old  town  where  the  broad  steps 
go  up  to  the  platform  of  the  church.  The  street  was  a  great 
crevasse,  with  stained  walls  and  faded  green  shutters  and 
linen  hung  out  to  dry,  and  roofed  with  the  blue  of  the  heavens. 
The  grey  cobble  paving  led  the  eyes  upwards  till  they  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  white  tombs  and  black  cypresses  on  the  height 
above. 


248  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Skelton  threw  a  copper  into  a  beggar's  hat,  and  stopped  to 
refill  his  pipe. 

"To  think  that  she  has  been  here  six  weeks  and  has  seen 
nothing  of  all  this!" 

He  walked  on  slowly,  glancing  right  and  left  into  the  dark 
entries  where  the  bottom  steps  of  worn  stairways  showed. 
They  looked  like  lurking  places  for  lovers,  and  jealous,  primi- 
tive passion  armed  with  a  knife. 

"Bad  luck,  rank  bad  luck,  little  woman." 

There  was  no  impatience  in  his  eyes,  no  suggestion  of  a 
grieved  restlessness  in  his  meditations.  His  thoughts,  thread- 
ing this  queer  old  street,  worked  back  to  the  villa  up  yonder 
with  a  message  of  compassion  and  of  hope. 

In  the  subdued  light  of  the  bedroom  Constance  lay  awake, 
listening  and  thinking.  Bad  luck  indeed!  She  called  it  more 
than  that,  seeing  that  she  had  developed  a  temperature  the  very 
first  day  after  the  journey,  and  had  been  in  the  doctor's  hands 
before  the  evening.  Influenza  of  a  rather  virulent  type  had 
kept  her  in  bed  for  two  whole  weeks,  and  then  had  taken  an 
ironical  departure,  leaving  her  in  possession  of  a  weak  and 
nervous  heart. 

Bad  luck!  Six  weeks  had  gone  by,  and  Constance  alone  knew 
how  she  had  suffered,  consumed  by  an  impatience  to  be  well 
and  a  morbid  dread  of  giving  trouble.  It  had  seemed  to  her 
so  wretched  an  omen  for  the  future,  and  her  dominant  thought 
had  been  that  she  had  let  Skelton  marry  an  invalid  wife, 
and  that  no  effort  on  his  part  could  overcome  the  inherent 
frailty  of  her  heritage.  His  very  patience  had  spelt  suspense, 
since  she  had  treasured  it,  watching  it  anxiously  from  day  to 
day,  and  fearing  to  discover  some  signs  of  its  diminishing.  The 


THE  WHITE  GATE  249 

more  she  came  to  love  her  husband,  the  more  she  hated  her 
unfortunate  self. 

"I  shall  spoil  his  life,"  she  kept  saying  to  herself.  "He  will 
grow  tired,  he  must  grow  tired.  I  had  little  enough  before  to 
give  him,  but  now " 

Then  a  desperate  resolve  to  overcome  her  unfitness,  to  re- 
vivify herself,  to  make  a  fight  for  happiness,  would  rush  over 
her. 

"I  will  get  strong;  I  must  get  strong.  It  all  depends  on 
myself." 

At  nine  Skelton  came  in,  carrying  her  tray  with  the  brown 
coffee  pot,  and  the  crisp  horse-shoe  rolls,  the  butter  and  honey. 
He  set  it  down,  crossed  over,  and  opened  one  of  the  shutters. 

"How's  that,  dear;  not  too  much  light?" 

"No;  I  love  the  sunlight." 

"That's  good.  Now  for  breakfast." 

She  sat  up,  and  he  brought  her  her  dressing-jacket,  helped 
her  into  it,  and  put  the  tray  on  the  bed.  Her  eyes  threw 
anxious  and  almost  furtive  glances  at  him. 

"Thank  you  so  much,  Dick." 

"Feeling  better?" 

"Oh,  yes,  much  better.  I  shall  soon  be  well;  I  shall — really." 

"Of  course  you  will." 

She  choked  something  in  her  throat,  set  her  lips  firmly, 
and  refused  to  break  down.  Skelton  went  out  for  a  moment, 
and  returned  with  the  flowers. 

"Here's  some  colour.  You  shall  see  them  growing  before 
long." 

"Dick!" 

She  coloured  up  and  stretched  out  her  hands. 


250  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Let  me  have  them.  What  a  dear  you  are  to  me!  And  I 
feel  such  a  ghastly  humbug." 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  stroked  her  hair. 

"Nonsense.  No  problems,  mind.  I  call  all  this  the  clearing 
shower;  bad  times  always  come  in  groups,  like  wet  seasons. 
There  is  nothing  for  you  to  worry  about.  The  Lascelles  are 
not  coming  for  another  month,  and  they  will  be  glad  for 
us  to  stay  on  here.  You'll  be  getting  fit  by  then." 

She  nearly  choked  over  her  cofTee. 

"Dick,  do  go  for  a  walk  to-day." 

"No." 

"Do.  I  should  like  you  to.  Promise.  Anna  can  make  you 
up  some  lunch." 

He  felt  the  pulse  of  her  desire  and  humoured  it. 

"All  right,  enfant,  I'll  tramp  up  to  Gorbio  and  round  by 
Roquebrunne.  And  presently  we  will  have  you  out  on  a  noble 
mule." 

"Yes,  presently." 

So  Skelton  set  out  for  Gorbio,  that  grey  little  town  set  like 
a  casket  on  its  hill,  and  Constance  lay  some  while  longer  in 
bed,  thinking.  She  rose  about  ten  o'clock,  and,  opening  the 
shutters,  stood  looking  down  upon  the  gardens,  the  red  roofs 
and  the  sea.  A  sailing  boat  was  making  its  way  out  of  the 
harbour;  a  ringing  of  bells  came  from  the  old  town,  and  in 
one  of  the  gardens  an  Italian  gardener  was  singing  in  a 
flowing  basso.  Down  below  a  French  locomotive  gave  out  its 
distinctive  and  rather  querulous  whistle  as  it  steamed  slowly 
along  the  hidden  line. 

It  was  mellow  with  life  this  scene,  a  mature,  Mediterranean 
sunlit  life,  even  though  the  cemetery  stood  out  so  significantly 
on  the  height  above,  and  Constance,  looking  down  upon  it 


THE  WHITE  GATE  251 

all,  caught  at  a  ray  of  sunlight  and  turned  it  into  her  own 
heart. 

"I  will  get  strong.  I'll  make  myself  a  mate  for  him." 

She  did  not  ring  for  swiss  Anna,  but  dressed  herself,  put 
on  a  hat  and  shoes,  chose  a  gay  sunshade  that  Skelton  had 
bought  for  her,  and  passed  down  the  stone  stairs.  In  the  hall, 
with  its  polished  pine  floor,  she  came  upon  Anna  busy  with 
broom  and  polisher. 

"Ah,  madame!" 

Anna  was  fat,  and  short,  and  round,  with  black  eyes  and  a 
huge  mouth,  but  her  plumpness  was  a  clean  and  saucy  plump- 
ness. She  had  an  operatic  way  of  talking  and  of  striking  atti- 
tudes that  had  captured  Skelton's  sense  of  humour.  Her  Eng- 
lish was  electrical. 

"Ah,  madame,  you  go  walking!" 

"I  feel  much  stronger,  Anna,  and  I  am  only  going  a  little 
way." 

She  was  seized  by  a  desire  to  take  this  fat,  good-tempered 
thing  into  her  confidence. 

"I  don't  want  monsieur  to  know,  Anna.  I  want  to  be  able 
to  walk  a  little  farther  each  day,  and  then  make  it  a  surprise 
for  him." 

Anna  held  up  her  hands. 

"A  surprise  for  monsieur.  Bien,  bien!  I  keep  my  tongue  tied, 
as  you  say.  No  rot;  I  tell  you  I  am  jolly  saucy!" 

"Anna,  where  did  you  learn  some  of  your  English?" 

"I  learn  English  in  English  family.  The  young  gentlemen 
teach  me  the  id — idioms,  they  called  it." 

"And  you  are  teaching  me  French  idioms." 

"I  teach  you  very  good  French — most  infernal  good  French." 

"Anna!" 


252  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Constance  went  out  into  the  sunshine,  down  the  steps  under 
the  rose  arches,  and  out  by  the  green  iron  gate  where  climb- 
ing groundsel  scrambled  in  masses  over  the  gate  pillars.  She 
felt  a  little  dizzy  at  first,  but  launching  out  downhill  on  the 
shady  side  of  the  lane,  she  adventured  between  high  walls 
and  the  gardens  of  the  various  villas.  The  first  two  hundred 
yards  were  wholly  encouraging,  and  then  she  had  a  sudden 
feeling  of  having  been  dropped  into  a  hot  and  airless  pit.  Her 
skin  flamed  and  then  went  cold,  and  she  had  to  rest  against 
a  wall. 

"I  have  gone  far  enough  for  the  first  time." 

She  spoke  to  herself  rallyingly,  and  started  to  walk  back, 
not  faring  so  badly  till  the  hill  rose  against  her.  She  stopped 
to  rest,  went  on,  stopped  again  to  rest,  feeling  her  heart  drum- 
ming, and  the  arteries  throbbing  in  her  arm-pits. 

"It  has  got  to  be  done,"  she  told  herself,  and  so  she  held 
on — slowly,  breathlessly — her  whole  body  throbbing  with  the 
beating  of  her  heart.  Once,  at  a  sunny  corner,  she  felt  that  she 
must  sink  down  and  faint,  but  desperate  courage  carried  her 
home. 

The  steps  were  a  ladder  of  torment.  She  tottered  on  to  the 
terrace,  to  be  rescued  by  fat  Anna  who  had  come  out  to 
shake  a  rug. 

"Ah,  madame!" 

"I'll  lie  down,  Anna,  in  the  shade  over  there  under  the 
lemon  tree.  I  got  on  splendidly." 

"Awfully  splendidly!  Too  much  cheek,  madame.  I  get  you 
some  wine." 

"Just  a  little,  Anna." 

She  unpinned  her  hat  and  lay  flat  on  the  long  cane  lounge 
chair,  wondering  how  long  her  heart  was  going  on  hammering 


THE  WHITE  GATE  253 

at  the  rate  of  a  hundred  and  twenty  strokes  a  minute.  A  sense 
of  horrible  physical  distress  possessed  her,  but  morally  she 
set  her  teeth  and  held  to  her  ideal. 

"I  have  done  it  once.  I  don't  care.  Make  or  mar,  and  I 
would  rather  be  dead  than  a  clog  on  him — for  ever.  I'll  go 
out  again  to-morrow." 


Chapter  Twenty-nine 


ANNA  brought  out  Constance's  dejeuner  into  the  rose  ar- 
bour, where  a  screen  of  reeds  kept  off  the  mistral,  and  where 
she  could  lie  and  look  out  over  the  sea.  As  a  cook,  Anna 
had  the  most  delicate  of  fingers,  and  her  serving  of  fish,  eggs, 
and  salads  might  have  satisfied  the  most  selfish  of  bachelors 
who  demand  that  everything  shall  be  exquisitely  done,  and 
who  confer  a  favour  upon  people  by  deigning  to  eat  their 
food.  Nor  is  a  glass  of  good  wine  despicable  when  sipped  on 
a  southern  terrace,  nor  the  cup  of  coffee  that  was  to  follow  it, 
and  Constance  drifted  into  a  state  of  pleasant  languor  that 
faltered  on  the  borderland  of  sleep.  She  had  made  her  effort 
for  the  day,  and  sufficient  unto  the  day  was  the  effort  thereof. 
About  three  o'clock  she  was  roused  from  the  long  calm  of 
her  drowsy  mood  by  the  clang  of  the  iron  gate  at  the  bottom 
of  the  steps.  There  were  light  footsteps  and  the  scuffling  sound 
made  by  an  elaboration  in  silk  petticoats.  Constance  saw  a 
cerise-coloured  sunshade  rise  into  view,  to  be  followed  by  a 
white  figure  with  a  cerise-coloured  gauze  scarf  over  its  shoul- 
ders. She  started  up  with  an  inward  whimper  of  annoyance, 

254 


THE  WHITE  GATE  255 

for  she  was  not  inclined  towards  this  particular  visitor  on  this 
particular  day. 

"My  dear,  don't  get  up,  don't  get  up.  This  is  splendid!" 
The  lady  with  the  cerise  sunshade  took  the  terrace  and  Con- 
stance at  one  gush. 

"My  dear,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  down.  Jim  has  gone  to 
Monte,  and  I  thought  I'd  stroll  up  and  see  how  you  were 
getting  along." 

She  was  a  big  woman,  with  a  fine  head  of  naturally  yellow 
hair,  and  a  round  and  peculiarly  handsome  face;  moreover, 
she  possessed  one  of  those  thick  white  skins  that  never  burn 
or  freckle,  and  retain  a  sleek  creaminess  on  all  occasions.  A 
certain  breadth  of  nostril  and  a  slight  tip-tilting  of  the  nose 
gave  her  an  expression  of  audacious  good  humour,  and  the 
delicately  pencilled  lids  and  brows  made  her  very  effective 
when  a  man  was  present. 

"Well,  how  are  you,  really?  This  looks  more  like  the  right 
thing." 

"I  am  much  better." 
"And  hubby  has  gone  off  for  the  day?" 
"Richard  has  gone  to  Gorbio  and  Roquebrunne." 
The  elder  woman's  eyes  glimmered  with  amusement.  She 
drew  up  a  cane  chair,  and  looked  Constance  over  with  an 
air  of  large  and  patronising  good  humour.  "Richard  has  gone 
to  Gorbio."  To  a  woman  who  was  elementally  quick  and 
shrewd  this  touch  of  rigidity  was  suggestive  and  rather  comic. 
Mrs.  Madge  Parsons  had  very  clear-cut  views  of  life,  and  life 
for  her  meant  an  horizon  that  was  ultimately  male.  It  was  a 
staging  for  the  interplay  of  sex,  elemental  and  yet  curiously 
self-conscious,  a  kind  of  Empire  ballet  in  which  things  fern- 


256  THE  WHITE  GATE 

inine  pivoted  with  all  the  seductive  details  of  shoes,  stockings 
and  petticoats  about  the  centre-point  of  male  appreciation. 

"That's  good  news  for  you.  Mr.  Skelton  is  one  of  the 
climbers.  Men  have  to  be  studied." 

"Oh?" 

Constance's  frigidity  retained  its  reserve. 

"They  are  selfish  creatures.  I  always  know  when  Jim  is 
feeling  at  his  best  by  the  way  he  scuds  off  on  his  own  some- 
where. You  may  be  sure  a  man  is  in  perfect  health  and  pretty 
well  satisfied  when  he  flirts.  You  have  to  give  a  man  a  little 
rope  to  keep  him." 

She  began  to  draw  of!  her  gloves,  and  Constance  lay  and 
looked  at  the  sea,  feeling  antipathetic  towards  her  visitor,  and 
ready  to  shrink  from  an  attitude  that  she  distrusted  and  did 
not  understand.  The  woman's  superabundant  health  oppressed 
her,  and  there  was  a  coarse  suggestiveness  about  her  conver- 
sation that  was  distasteful  and  baffling  to  Constance's  more 
delicate  nature.  Madge  Parsons  had  no  reserve.  She  saw  things 
nakedly  and  talked  about  them  rather  nakedly,  and  with  a 
cynical  and  good-humoured  gusto  that  offended  a  more  sen- 
sitive taste. 

"It's  high  time  you  got  well,  you  know.  Men  don't  like  in- 
valids. It's  only  natural." 

She  laughed,  and  there  was  a  gleam  of  invitation  in  her 
blue  eyes. 

"I  reckon  yours  is  a  very  good  hubby.  I  know  something 
about  men,  and  I  always  say  to  a  girl,  'Never  marry  a  bachelor 
over  forty,  and  always  find  out  whether  a  man  is  mean  about 
money.'  You'd  be  surprised  how  mean  men  can  be,  especially 
the  charmers.  Give  you  a  pound  one  day,  and  expect  it  to 
last  six  months.  But  when  a  man  doesn't  marry  and  gets  set, 


THE  WHITE  GATE  257 

my  word!  he's  a  terror!  Selfish!  I've  had  bachelors  staying  in 
my  house  who  used  to  empty  our  cigarette  boxes  into  their 
cases  before  they  went  away,  and  who  always  forgot  to  tip 
the  servants.  A  bachelor  of  forty  gives  more  trouble  than 
three  married  men.  They're  the  most  blind  and  selfish  beasts 
under  the  sun.  I  am  always  against  a  girl  marrying  one  of 
them.  You  see,  a  mean  man's  the  worst.  You  can't  get  along 
without  money,  and  if  a  man's  mean,  his  meanness  sits  down 
with  you  to  every  blessed  meal.  If  a  man's  generous,  I  can 
put  up  with  a  lot.  That's  why  Jim  and  I  get  along  so  well 
together.  Of  course,  I  know  he  has  his  little  affairs  sometimes; 
most  of  them  do.  But  the  wife  stands  safe  enough,  if  she's 
got  any  sense." 

Constance  felt  herself  in  the  thick  of  a  whirl  of  words. 
She  was  unfamiliar  with  the  way  in  which  such  women  as 
Madge  Parsons  talked  to  each  other,  throwing  out  innuendoes 
at  all  angles,  and  always  reverting  to  the  one  eternal  question. 
Nor  did  she  desire  to  discuss  any  of  her  own  intimate  affairs 
with  Madge  Parsons,  though  the  woman's  husband  happened 
to  be  one  of  Skelton's  friends. 

"I  don't  think  men  are  mean." 

"I  don't  suppose  you've  known  very  many.  And  even  the 
best  of  them  are  after  one  thing." 

She  laughed. 

"You're  a  little  chicken;  you  ought  to  be  told  a  thing  or 
two.  It's  good  for  a  girl  to  know  things  about  men,  instead 
of  having  to  find  them  all  out  for  herself  and  be  shocked." 

Constance  felt  a  sudden  dread  of  the  woman's  coarse 
frankness. 

"I  don't  care  to  discuss  such  subjects." 

"Anyhow,  my  dear,  you  are  one  of  the  lucky  ones,  though, 


258  THE  WHITE  GATE 

of  course,  a  man's  always  a  man.  You've  got  to  remember 
that.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  a  tale  or  two." 

She  did,  and  with  a  cynical  good  humour  that  made  Con- 
stance feel  that  all  the  sacred  things  of  life  were  being  pawed 
by  unclean  fingers.  A  vague  disgust  seized  her.  This  world 
in  which  Madge  Parsons  lived  seemed  a  sordid  and  horrible 
travesty  of  life  from  which  her  soul  revolted.  She  felt  sick 
and  shocked. 

"I  think  we  ought  to  have  tea." 

She  gathered  a  frigid  dignity  about  her,  and,  reaching  for 
the  hand  bell  on  the  table,  rang  for  Anna.  Mrs.  Parsons  looked 
amused. 

"Now  I've  shocked  you." 

"Thanks.  I  don't  care  to  talk  about  such  things." 

"My  dear  child,  it's  no  use  sweeping  the  dust  away  under 
the  hearth-rug.  You  don't  know  what  men  are.  You  take  a 
hint  from  a  married  woman." 

Anna  brought  tea,  with  thin  bread  and  butter,  and  chocolate 
Eclairs  and  fancy  cakes  from  the  Swiss  confectioner's.  Madge 
Parsons  suggested  that  she  should  pour  out  tea,  but  in  spite 
of  her  visitor's  air  of  large  good  humour  Constance  felt  armed 
and  on  the  defensive,  her  intuition  telling  her  that  Madge 
Parsons  was  officiously  interested  in  her  and  her  marriage. 
She  was  a  woman  who  thirsted  to  know  everybody's  history, 
and  she  may  have  had  her  suspicions,  and  such  a  nature  is 
piqued  by  some  new  sexual  problem. 

Constance  attempted  less  personal  topics. 

"How  do  you  like  your  hotel?" 

"One  can't  do  better  here,  though  it  is  so  full  of  old  women. 
They  are  queer  kinds  of  odds  and  ends — rag-bag  people. 
There's  one  spinster  of  fifty  with  a  swollen  face  and  a  voice 


THE  WHITE  GATE  259 

like  a  cough,  who  will  get  me  into  a  corner  and  groan  over 
the  diminishing  birth-rate  and  the  increase  of  insanity.  It 
makes  me  want  to  laugh.  You  know,  a  woman's  a  fool  unless 
she  has  a  man  to  go  about  with,  and  a  man's  as  bad.  One  can't 
get  along  with  the  women  who  have  always  lived  by  them- 
selves; they're  absurd." 

"I  suppose  it  is  so." 

"Too  many  old  women  in  the  world,  my  dear.  It's  a  pity 
they  can't  all  be  allowed  to  have  babies;  it  might  keep  them 
from  going  dotty  over  good  works,  and  all  that  sort  of  bosh. 
I  like  men;  they  are  better  sports  in  their  way  than  we  are. 
But  when  all's  said  and  done,  the  man  wants  the  woman 
in  us." 

Constance  shrank  away  from  this  reversion  to  the  old  topic, 
for,  though  she  hated  it,  this  sexual  gossip  quickened  some 
of  the  secret  fears  that  had  haunted  her  of  late. 

"Won't  you  have  some  more  tea?" 

"Thanks!  Don't  you  bother;  I'll  help  myself.  There's  one 
thing  I  can't  understand:  a  woman  not  wanting  children. 
Men  want  them  when  they've  got  them,  not  much  before. 
What  about  you,  now?" 

Constance's  eyes  fled  to  the  horizon. 

"I  haven't  thought  about  it  yet." 

She  did  not  see  the  flicker  of  interested  curiosity  in  Madge 
Parsons'  eyes. 

"About  time  to  begin,  isn't  it?" 

Constance  turned  her  head  away  to  listen  to  footsteps  that 
were  coming  up  the  lane.  A  flare  of  impatience  and  of  anger 
had  risen  in  her  against  this  woman,  and  her  aggressive  storm- 
ing of  all  barriers.  What  did  she  mean  by  persisting  in  trying 
to  talk  about  all  the  most  intimate  relations  of  life,  as  though 


260  THE  WHITE  GATE 

she  were  the  oldest  of  friends!  Besides,  surely  such  things 
were  sacred,  hidden  even  from  friends! 

Constance  felt  that  she  must  rescue  herself  from  this  free 
and  easy  tongue. 

"I  don't  think  I  care." 

The  iron  gate  clanged,  and  a  man's  footsteps  came  up  the 
stairway.  Constance  breathed  with  deep  relief. 

"Here's  my  husband." 

Skelton  came  up  the  steps  and  across  the  terrace,  throwing 
a  mere  momentary  glance  at  the  woman  in  white.  His  eyes 
were  wholly  for  his  wife,  and  she  flushed  from  throat  to  fore- 
head, smitten  through  by  a  joyous  belief  in  the  wholesome 
cleanliness  of  his  manhood. 

"Hallo!  I  have  had  a  great  day.  How  are  you,  madam,  and 
how's  Jim?  Monte  as  usual?  What  a  fellow!  Those  rooms 
give  me  a  cracking  headache  in  about  an  hour.  Tea,  by  Jove, 
tea!" 

Constance  let  herself  sink  into  the  strong  arms  of  his  vitality. 
He  could  carry  off  most  things,  and  even  bear  with  bores 
who  wanted  to  repeat  all  that  they  had  read  in  the  newspapers. 

Madge  Parsons  was  eager,  smiling. 

"You've  been  to  Roquebrunne?  Isn't  it  one  of  the  quaintest, 
dodgiest  things  on  earth?" 

She  seemed  to  turn  her  personality  inside  out  in  a  moment, 
to  show  a  new  surface,  and  to  create  a  kind  of  atmosphere 
of  charming  appreciativeness.  Constance  lay  and  stared  at  her, 
astonished  by  the  transfiguration.  Mrs.  Parsons  could  even 
patter  a  little  archaeology,  talk  about  the  trees  and  flowers, 
and  criticise  the  Alpine  troops  whom  Skelton  had  met  upon 
the  hills.  She  talked  man's  talk,  and  talked  it  well. 

Constance  lay  and  listened,  wondering  whether  her  hus- 


THE  WHITE  GATE  261 

band  suspected  how  differently  Mrs.  Madge  Parsons  could 
talk  to  a  woman.  She  was  tired  of  the  sound  of  the  woman's 
voice;  the  more  so  that  she  knew  that  her  visitor  was  talking 
artificially  and  for  effect;  nor  was  she  sorry  when  Madge  Par- 
sons rose  to  go. 

Skelton  accompanied  her  to  the  gate,  and  Constance  heard 
her  laughing  at  some  jest  of  his.  She  felt  mortified,  a  little 
jealous  of  the  other  woman's  superabundant  health. 

Skelton  came  back,  sat  down  close  to  his  wife,  and  took 
one  of  her  hands. 

"Tired?" 

"A  little.  But  I'm  so  much  better." 

"I  think  you  look  it.  Had  our  friend  been  here  long?" 

His  eyes  observed  her  with  subtle  intentness. 

"More  than  an  hour." 

She  broke  out  into  confidences. 

"I  don't  like  that  woman.  I  can't  bear  her!" 

"What— Madge?" 

"Yes." 

"She's  not  a  bad  sort.  Rather  overpowering,  of  course,  and 
primitive." 

"She's  so  cheap  and  cynical  and  coarse.  She  wants  to  find 
out  everything.  And  I  can't  bear  it!" 

Skelton's  face  hardened. 

"Has  she  been  upsetting  you?  Confound  the  woman!  I 
thought  she  had  more  sense.  Look  here,  dear,  in  the  future, 
tell  Anna  you  are  out." 

"But  she  walked  up  the  steps." 

"I'll  have  a  chain  and  padlock  put  on  the  gate." 

She  pressed  his  hand. 

"You  do  understand,  dear?  I " 


262  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"I  understand  all  right.  You  are  sacred  to  me,  and  I  to  you." 

"Oh,  that's  just  it!  And  it's  horrible  to  have  people  trying 
to  tear  open  all  the  secret  doors." 

"She's  that  sort,  is  she?  I  half  suspected  it.  She's  clever 
enough  at  playing  up  to  men." 

"You  don't  think  me  a  sensitive  fool?" 

"Good  heavens,  no!  Some  people  have  no  sense  of  privacy; 
they  want  to  see  into  everybody's  bedroom.  I  know  the  type. 
And  yet,  she's  a  good  sort  in  her  way." 

"I  can't  bear  to  have  her  near  me.  She  makes  me  feel  hor- 
rible. Dick,  aren't  there  some  people  who  seem  to  drag  you 
down  to  a  lower  level?" 

"Of  course  there  are.  The  thing  is  to  keep  them  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road." 

He  pulled  out  his  pipe,  filled  it,  and  began  to  smoke,  gazing 
meditatively  over  the  sea.  And  Constance  watched  him — 
anxiously,  jealously — telling  herself  with  fierceness  that  he  was 
not  as  other  men — the  men  whom  Madge  Parsons  knew. 

And  yet  the  woman's  innuendoes  haunted  her.  In  order  to 
keep  a  man's  love ! 


FROM  that  afternoon  Constance  began  to  watch  her  hus- 
band's face  as  one  on  a  holiday  watches  the  sky  from  day  to 
day,  fearing  to  find  the  fine  weather  breaking.  And  since  no 
decent  creature  is  as  venomously  cheerful  as  Mark  Tapley, 
Constance  detected  what  she  believed  to  be  an  incipient  sad- 
ness in  the  eyes  of  the  man  she  loved — a  sadness  that  might 
mean  regret.  Many  a  newly  married  woman  passes  through 
this  stage  of  over-watchfulness  and  doubt,  being  strange  per- 
haps to  the  ways  of  men,  the  passion  to  create  that  possesses 
the  best  of  them,  the  silences,  the  preoccupation  that  comes 
from  thought.  A  something  glides  between;  it  may  be  a 
business  scheme,  a  book,  a  round  of  golf.  And  a  young  wife 
is  apt  to  seize  upon  this  preoccupation,  and  to  magnify  it 
into  the  breedings  of  disillusionment.  In  the  most  intimate 
marriage  husband  and  wife  need  their  dim  retreats,  their 
little  secret  oratories,  a  solitude  that  is  inviolate.  We  are  not 
always  out  in  the  sun,  or  asking  people  to  guess  our  thoughts. 
The  fact  was  that  Skelton  was  worried.  The  creative  spirit 
that  dwelt  in  him  had  grown  restless  and  importunate  at  the 

263 


264  THE  WHITE  GATE 

end  of  two  months'  idleness,  and  it  was  thrusting  ideas  upon 
him  and  imperiously  demanding  that  they  should  be  put  into 
action.  Moreover,  he  had  been  worried  by  Constance's  illness, 
not  selfishly,  but  because  it  had  hinted  at  the  pathetic  fragility 
of  the  body  of  the  woman  whom  he  loved.  Also,  there  were 
financial  worries  hovering  on  the  horizon.  One  or  two  of 
his  inventions  that  had  promised  well  were  refusing  to  fly, 
and  the  great  Doyle  was  finessing  with  regard  to  the  ex- 
ploitation of  "Jerry." 

So  Skelton  had  a  silent  mood  pieced  in  here  and  there,  more 
especially  when  the  creative  spirit  gripped  him,  and  his  brain 
grew  incandescent  with  inward  vision.  He  would  sit  on  the 
terrace,  smoking  hard,  and  staring  into  space,  while  Con- 
stance's eyes  crept  up  from  the  pages  of  a  book  to  glance 
at  him.  Silence,  such  silence,  is  rather  frightening  to  a  sensi- 
tive spirit  that  is  on  the  watch  for  a  clouding  sky,  and  it  is  a 
strange  but  certain  fact  that  some  men  have  the  knack  of 
looking  supremely  miserable  when  they  are  in  the  thick  of 
hard  thinking.  The  almost  morose  and  preoccupied  face  of 
the  thinker  may  have  scared  many  a  young  wife  into  imagin- 
ing that  the  man  she  has  married  has  discovered  her  to  be  a 
fool  and  a  bore. 

"He  is  unhappy  about  something,"  she  would  say  to  her- 
self, but  she  could  not  summon  up  courage  to  challenge  his 
silence. 

"Of  course,  it's  my  wretched  health.  And  I'm  not  big 
enough  or  clever  enough." 

When  Skelton  came  out  of  the  unconscious  gloom  of  his 
thinking,  and  flashed  out  on  her  a  playful  tenderness,  she 
would  suspect  effort  in  it  and  a  determination  on  his  part  to 
make  the  best  of  things  and  to  be  kind. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  265 

The  more  she  brooded  over  these  possibilities,  the  stronger 
grew  the  kind  of  desperate  will  in  her  to  overcome  her  physi- 
cal weakness,  and  to  train  herself  to  be  a  mate  for  her  hus- 
band. The  time  seemed  so  critical.  Her  love,  rendered  restless 
by  suspense,  dreaded  lest  happiness  should  slip  away  before 
she  could  make  her  effort.  She  was  for  ever  persuading  Skel- 
ton  to  go  on  long  tramps  to  the  hill  towns  and  villages  round 
about,  to  play  golf  at  Sospell,  or  listen  to  the  music  at  Monte 
Carlo. 

"You  can  find  out  all  the  finest  bits,"  she  said  to  him,  "and 
then  you  will  know  what  to  show  me  when  I  am  well." 

His  absence  was  her  opportunity,  and  fat  Anna  was  a  fel- 
low conspirator.  Skelton  believed  that  his  wife  could  not  walk 
a  hundred  yards,  and  she  temporized  with  his  suggestion  as 
to  the  hiring  of  a  car;  yet  each  day  when  he  was  away  she 
was  making  a  pilgrimage  along  the  Boulevard  de  Caravan, 
lengthening  it  at  each  outing,  and  feeling  her  heart  growing 
steadier  at  each  attempt. 

About  this  time,  too,  she  came  by  one  of  those  queer  notions 
that  thrust  themselves  with  seeming  illogicalness  into  the  pat- 
terning of  our  emotions.  Each  morning  she  saw  the  white 
tombs  and  the  dark  cypresses  of  the  cemetery  standing  out 
against  the  blue  of  the  sky,  and  the  belief  grew  in  her  that 
when  she  was  able  to  reach  that  height  above  the  old  town 
she  would  find  herself  strong  and  well.  It  suggested  to  her  a 
pilgrimage  to  some  sacred  city  where  there  were  wondrous 
waters  of  healing,  a  city  that  rose  azure-turreted  against  an 
orange  dawn.  Each  day  she  drew  a  little  nearer,  strangely 
persuaded  that  all  the  blemishes  would  fall  away  from  her 
when  she  reached  that  garden  of  the  dead  where  the  cypress 
tops  curved  like  sickles  when  the  mistral  blew. 


266  THE  WHITE  GATE 

As  for  Skelton,  he  was  wise  enough  to  understand  the  in- 
ward purpose  of  her  unselfishness.  An  exacting  woman  may 
kill  the  love  she  cherishes,  and  men — whose  lives  are  full  of 
give  and  take — value  nothing  more  highly  in  a  woman  than 
unselfish  reasonableness.  Skelton  knew  that  it  pleased  his 
wife  that  he  should  leave  her  at  times,  and  the  gain  was  hers 
in  the  matter  of  his  homage.  She  was  sensitively  afraid  of 
being  selfish,  of  exacting  too  much,  a  rare  spirit  in  a  very 
young  wife. 

Sometimes  he  climbed  the  hills  to  Castellar,  St.  Agnes,  or 
Grimaldi,  wandering  along  the  olive  terraces  and  looking  back 
through  the  spun  lace  at  the  blue  of  the  sea.  Grey,  rock-set, 
earthquake-shaken  Eze  was  a  favourite  haunt  of  his,  and  he 
loved  the  long  scramble  down  the  mule-path  among  the  pines 
to  the  white  road  at  the  edge  of  the  sea.  Always,  Constance 
was  with  him  in  thought.  "She  will  like  this,  and  this,"  he 
said  to  himself,  and  even  the  shops  at  Monte  Carlo  had  a 
suggestive  fascination.  "She  shall  have  a  day's  shopping  over 
here,  and  it  shall  be  a  day." 

Sometimes  he  sat  in  the  gardens  at  Mentone  by  the  band- 
stand, watching  the  people  and  listening  to  the  music.  The 
white  casino,  the  green  grass,  the  violas,  cyclamen,  and 
cinerarias  in  the  beds  were  gay  in  the  sunshine.  Northwards 
rose  the  Annonciata  Hill,  with  the  grey  bastion-like  wall  of 
its  monastery  terrace  and  its  mighty  cypresses,  and  the  peak 
of  St.  Agnes,  and  the  little  white-towered  hotel  thrusting  into 
the  sky.  On  most  mornings  he  would  find  Jim  Parsons  and 
his  wife  settled  in  a  shady  corner,  Jim  reading  the  English 
paper,  his  wife  criticising  the  world  at  large.  She  had  a  healthy 
interest  in  life,  and  a  rather  boisterous  sense  of  humour. 

On  the  morning  before  the  coming  of  King  Carnival,  Skel- 


THE  WHITE  GATE  267 

ton  discovered  them  in  their  usual  corner,  sitting  on  two 
garden  chairs  with  an  air  of  utter  detachment.  Skelton  had 
known  James  Parsons  years  ago.  He  was  short  and  stubby, 
with  a  vulgar  face  and  a  most  excellent  heart.  He  wore  a  grey 
bowler  hat,  spats,  and  a  carnation  in  his  buttonhole,  and 
carried  wash-leather  gloves  and  a  yellow  cane. 

"Hallo!  Sit  down." 

"No  Monte  to-day?" 

"Monte!  My  dear  chap,  I  had  a  Deutscher  breathing  on  the 
top  of  my  head  for  a  whole  hour  yesterday." 

Madge  Parsons  welcomed  Skelton  with  that  indefinable 
rusding  of  skirts,  like  a  tree  wooed  by  the  wind.  She  was  in- 
terested in  Skelton,  and  interested  in  his  marriage,  the  more 
so  because  of  a  male  elusiveness  that  refused  to  be  caught 
in  the  net  of  her  sympathy.  Skelton  puzzled  her,  and  therefore 
piqued  her  femininity.  She  wondered  whether  he  was  ex- 
traordinarily cold,  or  the  victim  of  a  devilish  reserve. 

"How's  madame?" 

"Much  better,  thanks." 

She  observed  him  critically. 

"It  must  be  worrying  for  you,  and  on  your  honeymoon, 
too." 

"One  needn't  look  for  worry,  you  know." 

He  was  debonair  and  perfectly  friendly,  but  his  courtesy 
was  a  polished  surface  that  turned  the  points  of  all  her  projec- 
tiles. Reserve  can  be  radiant,  and  even  genial,  and  is  then 
more  baffling  than  a  studied  reticence. 

Jim  Parsons's  queer,  fish-like  eyes  roved  over  them  both, 
and  betrayed  a  faint  glitter  of  amusement.  He  and  his  wife 
were  excellent  friends,  but  he  knew  her  tricks  of  temper  as 
well  as  he  knew  the  temper  of  a  favourite  horse.  He  made 


268  THE  WHITE  GATE 

silent  comments,  pretending  to  read  his  paper.  "Look  at  her 
trying  the  confidence  game  on  old  Skelton.  Go  it,  my  dear,  try 
your  hardest.  You  won't  pump  much  out  of  him." 

And  she  didn't;  and  so  far  confessed  her  failure  as  to  revert 
to  less  personal  topics. 

Parsons  smiled  tolerantly. 

"Which  way  are  you  going,  Skelton?  Home?" 

"Yes." 

"We'll  walk  along  the  parade  with  you,  and  round  by  the 
harbour." 

When  Skelton  left  them  under  the  shade  of  the  old  town 
houses,  and  started  the  ascent  to  the  Villa  Proserpine,  they 
returned  towards  the  gardens  by  the  Avenue  Felix  Faure, 
walking  a  little  apart  with  an  air  of  not  belonging  to  each 
other.  Madge  Parsons  stopped  to  look  in  all  the  hat  shops, 
while  her  husband  dawdled  on,  stopping  in  his  turn  to  look 
at  photographs  or  picture  postcards,  his  wife  overtaking  him, 
and  dawdling  on  in  turn.  Yet  they  managed  to  keep  up  a 
conversation  even  under  these  conditions,  each  being  ready 
with  a  remark  or  a  counter-remark  when  they  happened  to 
be  together  for  a  matter  of  twenty  steps. 

"I  can't  quite  make  that  man  out." 

"Skelton?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  queer." 

Here  there  was  an  interlude  devoted  to  a  windowful  of 
lace. 

"I  never  quite  know  whether  he  is  laughing  at  me  or  not." 

"You  never  will,  Madge." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  269 

He  diverged  towards  a  stationer's  where  they  sold  English 
novels,  but  he  had  bought  nothing  when  he  overtook  his  wife. 

"Skelton's  not  in  your  book,  old  girl.  He's  too  devilish 
clever,  even  for  you." 

"Thanks!" 

"What's  more,  he's  most  confoundedly  in  love  with  his 
wife." 

Rumpelmayer's  window  was  the  next  distraction. 

"Men  are  queer  creatures.  One  knows  more  or  less  that  the 
girl  was — well,  a  little  worse  than  a  nobody." 

"Which  may  be  much  better  than  being  a  little  somebody." 

"I  can't  see  the  attraction." 

"You  are  too  robust.  It's  all  in  the  air,  high  up,  out  of 
sight." 

"I  think  you  are  talking  rubbish." 

"All  right,  leave  it  at  that.  One  can't  see  what  one  was  not 
made  to  see." 


Chapter  Thirty-one 


(J  N  THE  day  when  King  Carnival  arrived  at  Mentone  in 
the  guise  of  a  boxer  riding  the  ass  of  Gorbio,  Constance  for 
the  first  time  opened  the  piano  that  stood  in  the  little  salon. 
She  sat  for  a  while  with  her  hands  resting  tentatively  on  the 
keyboard,  waiting  for  an  inspiration,  her  face  upturned,  her 
eyes  half-closed.  Skelton  had  gone  out,  taking  a  batch  of  let- 
ters with  him,  and  this  February  morning  she  felt  a  welling 
up  of  song  within  her  and  a  sense  of  strange,  expectant  joy. 
Never  before  had  she  risen  here  with  such  a  feeling  of  fresh- 
ness, and  the  beckoning  cypresses  up  yonder  seemed  very 
near. 

The  scent  of  wallflowers  and  stocks  floated  into  the  room, 
making  her  imagine  blue  night  and  a  perfumed  sea.  She 
was  in  a  drifting,  dreamy  mood,  in  the  green  gloom  of  a 
lover's  twilight,  and  the  fruit  upon  the  trees  were  so  many 
lamps  of  pale  gold. 

Her  fingers  moved  at  last,  and  glided  into  one  of  Chopin's 
waltzes.  Presently  she  began  to  sing  some  French  song,  and 
she  sang  with  a  smile  in  her  heart  and  a  foretaste  of  desire 
upon  her  lips. 

270 


THE  WHITE  GATE  271 

Skelton  had  gone  out  with  his  batch  of  letters,  and  among 
them  was  a  depressing  one  from  John  Cuthbertson. 

DEAR  OLD  MAN, — Sorry  to  say  I  can't  bring  Doyle  to  the  sign- 
ing point.  The  beggar  is  in  his  most  slippery  mood.  He  sent  me 
the  draft  of  an  agreement  that  he  had  drawn  up,  and  no  sooner 
had  our  legal  man  studied  it  than  he  looked  at  me  and  grinned. 
I  know  what  Hardy's  grin  means:  that  he  has  scented  some  sly 
and  round-the-corner  trickery.  I  sent  the  agreement  back  to  Doyle 
with  a  fairly  grim  letter,  and  so  things  are  hung  up.  I  have  given 
him  a  week  to  make  up  his  mind  and  accept  our  terms,  and  if 
he  hangs  back  we  must  start  fresh  and  try  to  rope  somebody  else 
in.  We  haven't  quite  enough  financial  force  to  thrust  the  thing 
through  ourselves;  it's  a  big  thing,  and  wants  a  big  opportunity. 

Some  of  these  financial  men  make  me  want  to  go  out  into  the 
wilds  away  from  the  smell  of  them.  My  dear  chap,  they  are  un- 
clean, you  know,  sordid,  greedy,  well-dressed  beasts  packed  full 
of  Tory  prejudice.  I  have  to  let  out  sometimes. 

Skelton  smiled  rather  bitterly  over  this  letter.  He  knew 
that  John  Cuthbertson's  big  shoulders  and  stubborn  good 
temper  had  had  to  bear  many  business  burdens  that  were 
made  detestable  by  the  methods  of  the  people  with  whom 
he  had  to  deal.  Skelton  had  never  been  able  to  adjust  him- 
self to  the  commercial  side  of  a  manufacturer's  life.  His 
creative  brain  could  not  bear  patiently  with  financial  pimps 
and  promoters.  The  abominable  selfishness,  the  cynical  "slim- 
ness"  of  much  of  it  had  made  him  lash  out,  and  make  use 
of  the  devilish  irony  of  a  clever  tongue.  The  very  ferocity  of 
his  scorn  had  made  him  impossible  as  a  business  man,  and 
he  had  left  all  diplomatic  details  to  John  Cuthbertson. 

The  big  Yorkshireman  knew  how  to  defend  himself  with- 
out making  the  smaller  men  hate  him. 

"You  have  got  to  stand  up  quietly  to  the  beasts,"  he  said, 
"and  smile.  Stand  tight  and  smile.  They  find  out  that  they 


272  THE  WHITE  GATE 

can't  budge  you,  and  that  you  are  not  asleep.  You  have  to 
take  it  for  granted  that  most  of  these  people  have  dirty  hands." 

Skelton  wandered  up  to  the  cemetery  with  these  letters, 
and  sat  down  on  the  lower  parapet  below  the  figure  of  the 
"Marble  Girl."  This  white,  virginal  figure  moved  him  very 
strangely  that  morning.  It  was  the  spirit  of  youth  pensively 
accepting  sorrow,  wondering  perhaps  why  sorrow  came,  yet 
far  too  stricken  to  rebel.  In  looking  up  at  her  he  was  made 
to  think  of  the  fragile  body  of  his  own  wife  and  of  the  strong 
purpose  that  possessed  him  to  save  her  from  all  unhappiness. 

Some  of  the  sadness  of  the  "Marble  Girl"  descended  upon 
him,  and  he  found  himself  wondering  whether  Constance 
would  ever  be  strong.  He  had  dreamed  dreams  of  a  won- 
derful comradeship,  of  life  taken  together  on  the  wing.  It 
would  be  hard  for  both  of  them,  this  careful  and  circum- 
scribed existence,  this  economy  of  her  vitality.  A  mate  for 
him  in  the  spirit  she  might  be,  but  neither  man  nor  woman 
can  ignore  their  bodies,  in  spite  of  the  nonsense  talked  by  the 
Theosophists.  An  invalid  is  but  half  alive,  however  vital  the 
spirit  may  be;  there  are  a  hundred  limitations  and  barriers 
everywhere,  and  the  fragile  vase  has  to  be  delicately  handled, 
nor  can  it  hold  the  essential  richness  of  life.  Nor  could  the 
possible  cramping  and  souring  of  her  character  be  ignored, 
the  gradual  growth  of  a  pathetic  peevishness  that  attacks  a 
spirit  that  is  not  strong  enough  to  enjoy.  It  was  for  her  sake 
that  Skelton  felt  the  pity  of  it  all. 

He  looked  about  him,  and  felt  sad  that  she  could  not  see 
all  that  was  spread  above  and  below.  Close  on  his  right  rose 
the  cupola  of  the  Russian  tomb  dusted  over  with  golden  stars. 
In  the  battered,  pink  cathedral  tower  the  great  bell  smote 
solemnly.  He  looked  down  on  the  flat  expanse  of  red  and 


THE  WHITE  GATE  273 

black  tiled  roofs,  on  the  placid  harbour,  and  on  the  blue  bay 
with  its  white  fringe  of  foam.  Over  yonder  were  the  Red 
Rocks;  beyond  them  La  Mortola  point,  and  on  the  horizon 
Bordighera,  a  white  town  shining  in  the  sunlight  on  the 
purple  edge  of  the  sea.  Birds  were  twittering  in  the  cypresses, 
and  he  could  hear  the  steady  breaking  of  the  waves  upon 
the  shingle. 

One  thing  he  did  not  see:  a  slim  figure  in  white  coming 
slowly  up  the  Boulevard  de  Caravan  under  the  shade  of  a 
dark  blue  sunshade.  He  had  left  the  parapet  overlooking  the 
Caravan  bay,  and  climbed  to  the  upper  platform  where  the 
cypresses  stood  close  together  like  mourners  among  the  tombs. 
Constance,  pausing  from  time  to  time,  reached  the  stairway 
leading  to  the  lower  cemetery,  where  a  child  stood  selling 
little  bunches  of  wild  violets.  The  flowers  were  a  part  of  her 
triumph,  and  the  symbolism  delighted  her.  She  had  climbed 
to  this  citadel  of  healing  in  this  sunny  land  washed  by  a 
southern  sea.  The  cypresses  that  had  beckoned  from  afar  were 
very  beautiful  and  very  near. 

She  climbed  the  steps,  holding  her  bunch  of  wild  violets, 
and  wandering  along,  sat  down  on  the  parapet  looking  to- 
wards Caravan,  almost  upon  the  very  spot  that  her  husband 
had  just  left.  From  under  her  blue  sunshade  her  eyes  glanced 
up  at  the  "Marble  Girl,"  and  the  first  impression  that  the 
figure  stirred  in  her  was  one  of  quick  repulsion.  The  meek, 
wondering  sadness  offended  her;  she,  who  felt  the  flush  of 
her  triumph,  and  to  whom  life  seemed  rich  and  desirable. 
She  had  not  suffered  and  laboured  day  by  day  to  be  brought 
to  the  feet  of  this  white  child  of  sorrow. 

Constance  turned  her  head  away  and  lost  herself  in  the 


274  THE  WHITE  GATE 

world  beneath.  She  wanted  to  see  everything,  to  enjoy  every- 
thing this  sunny  morning,  when  the  birds  twittered  in  the 
cypresses  and  the  sea's  song  bubbled  out  in  foam.  Presently 
she  rose  and  wandered  on,  feeling  high  up,  on  the  top  of 
the  world,  floating  in  a  new  air.  Death  did  not  thrust  itself 
into  her  thoughts,  for  here  the  living  senses  could  satisfy 
themselves  with  flowers.  She  could  not  name  them  all — 
purple  irises,  rose  and  white  cyclamen,  climbing  geranium, 
the  hedges  of  Banksia  roses  round  the  graves  not  yet  in  bloom, 
white  jasmine,  mimosa,  heliotrope,  violets,  wallflowers,  prim- 
ulas, yellow-flowered  sedum,  aloes  and  agaves  on  the  rocks 
below.  Higher  still  the  cypresses  stabbed  the  blue,  and  the 
grey  mountains  shut  out  the  very  thought  of  the  north.  Some- 
times she  glanced  at  a  headstone,  and  read  the  name  and 
date  with  a  feeling  of  dreamy  detachment.  These  people  were 
dead;  they  had  lived  their  lives,  while  she  had  her  life  to 
live,  held  it  within  her  arms,  a  mass  of  fragrance,  of  colour 
and  desire. 

She  would  tell  him  the  truth  to-day,  confess  where  she  had 
been,  and  in  the  very  contemplation  of  this  triumph  she 
walked  almost  into  her  husband's  arms.  He  was  coming  down 
a  flight  of  steps,  his  hands  in  his  trouser  pockets,  his  head 
bowed  as  though  he  were  thinking. 

"Connie!" 

The  astonishment  upon  his  face  thrilled  her  as  very  few 
things  had  thrilled  her  in  life. 

"Connie!" 

"Yes,  I  am  here." 

"But,  good  heavens!  how  did  you  get  here?** 

"I  walked." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  275 

"You  walked?  But,  my  dear!" 
She  gave  a  queer  little  exultant  laugh. 
"No,  I  am  not  exhausted.  Hold  my  wrist  and  feel.  It  was 
to  be  a  surprise,  Dick." 
"By  Heaven,  it  is  that!"  he  said. 


Chapter  Thirty-two 


JLHEY  found  themselves  sitting  on  a  low  wall  under  the 
shade  of  a  cypress,  with  the  town  spread  out  below  them, 
and  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace  streaked  with  the  red 
torches  of  aloes  in  bloom.  The  cypress  breathed  softly  in  the 
wind  with  a  gentle,  shivering  motion,  and  its  long  shadow 
fell  like  the  shadow  of  a  gnomon  on  a  dial.  This  corner  of 
the  garden  of  the  dead  was  wholly  theirs  for  the  moment. 
Blue  sky  above,  the  town  and  the  sea  below,  and  the  calm- 
ness of  sunlight  upon  the  mountains. 

"Am  I  to  guess  the  answer  to  the  riddle?" 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  and  smiled,  the  mysterious  smile 
of  a  woman  who  is  loved. 

"Shall  I  tell  it  you?'* 

"No  secrets,  mind!" 

"I  think  I  shall  always  be  able  to  tell  you  everything." 

She  had  laid  the  bunch  of  violets  on  the  wall  between  her- 
self and  Skelton,  and  was  tracing  patterns  on  the  sandy  path 
with  the  point  of  her  sunshade. 

"I  was  horribly  afraid,  Dick.  I  couldn't  help  it.  When  you 

remember " 

276 


THE  WHITE  GATE  277 

She  glanced  up  at  him  momentarily  with  a  flush  of  colour, 
and  then  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  pattern  she  was 
drawing. 

"I  felt  you  had  given  me  everything,  and  that  I  had  brought 
you  nothing  but  worry  and  bad  luck.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I 
hated  my  own  body.  It  was  horrible  to  have  to  lie  there 
and  feel  that  you  had  made  such  a  miserable  bargain." 

He  was  watching  her  and  keeping  quiet. 

"It  frightened  me.  I  felt  that  I  might  spoil  your  life,  that 
you  had  married  a  poor  thing,  and  that  I  could  never  be  all 
that  I  wanted  to  be.  I  used  to — no,  I'll  not  be  egotistical.  But 
I  think  I  got  desperate.  I  thought  that  I  would  get  strong, 
or  kill  myself  in  the  trying." 

She  traced  a  Tudor  rose  with  the  point  of  her  sunshade. 

"So  I  began  to  make  my  effort,  going  out  when  you  were 
away,  and  walking  a  litde  farther  each  time  I  tried.  And  I 
had  a  queer,  prophetic  feeling  that  when  I  could  climb  up 
here  I  should  find  my  bad  fate  falling  off  my  shoulders. 
Strange,  wasn't  it,  but  a  child  was  waiting  with  violets  when 
I  came  up  the  steps:  and  violets  with  me  have  always  stood 
for  good  luck." 

She  picked  up  the  flowers,  smelt  them,  and,  looking  at  him, 
found  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  a  grave  and  penetrating 
gentleness. 

"So  that's  why  I  used  to  find  you  so  white  and  tired?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Did  the  doctor  know?" 

"Yes,  but  he  could  keep  a  secret,  and  he  cheered  me  up." 

"Do  you  know,  little  wife,  that  you  are  making  me  ask 
myself  whether  I  have  ever  hurt  you?" 

Her  hand  came  out  impulsively,  and  rested  upon  his. 


278  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"No,  no;  don't  think  that.  It  was  because  you  were  so  very 
good  to  me  that  I " 

"Well?" 

"It  made  me  feel  worse  about  everything.  I  wondered — I 
thought  no  man  could  go  on  caring.  And " 

His  hand  turned  and  closed  on  hers.  "What  is  a  fine- 
weather  love  worth?  I'm  no  raw  boy.  Do  you  think  I  don't 
know  what  suffering  is — that  I  haven't  been  hurt  in  my 
time — that  I'm  so  brutally  selfish?" 

Her  face  lifted  protestingly. 

"I  never  thought  mean  thoughts  about  you,  dear.  It  was  all 
about  myself."  A  wonderful  and  misty  radiance  seemed  to 
shine  in  her  eyes.  "Dick,  I  want  to  be  a  mate  for  you,  a  com- 
rade you  needn't  be  ashamed  of." 

"Connie!" 

She  was  caught  and  held,  her  mouth  very  near  to  his.  There 
was  not  a  soul  to  see,  nor  would  it  have  concerned  them, 
seeing  that  they  were  far  away  in  the  solitude  of  their  own 
two  selves. 

"I  mean  to  be.  I'm  so  much  stronger!" 

"Of  course." 

"I'll  not  bring  you  any  more  unhappiness — at  least,  I'll  try 
not  to — so  hard." 

His  eyes  held  hers.  "Listen.  I'm  proud,  proud  of  your  pluck. 
I  knew  you  had  it  in  you.  Why,  aren't  you  the  one  woman 
in  the  world?" 

She  glimmered  her  love  at  him.  "Not  yet,  Dick,  not  quite 
that — yet.  Oh,  don't  think  too  much  of  me.  You're  so  much 
bigger  than  I  am;  sometimes  I'm  frightened.  But,  dear,  I 
think  I  can  keep  your  love." 

His  smile  was  very  near  to  tears. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  279 

"Is  it  not  for  me  to  wonder  whether  I  can  keep  yours?" 

"Need  you  ask  that?" 

For  a  short  while  they  sat  in  silence,  conscious  of  a  sym- 
pathy that  was  too  sensitive  to  need  words. 

"Dick?" 

"Yes." 

"I  want  to  go  right  into  the  country,  on  the  hills,  with  you 
to-morrow.  I  want  it  to  be  our  first  day  together." 

"You  had  better  ride." 

"No,  I  want  to  walk.  Yes,  I  can  manage  it.  And  you 
will " 

"Carry  you  if  needs  be." 

"Will  you,  dear!  But  just  imagine  meeting  some  of  the 
good  English!" 

"Confound  them!  I  shouldn't  care.  By  George,  we  are  going 
to  live!  Life  will  be  splendid." 

She  sighed  and  drew  closer. 

"Isn't  it?  I  feel  so  happy;  just  like— like " 

"Like  what?" 

"I  can't  think  of  words." 

"So  much  the  better." 

She  looked  at  the  cypresses  and  away  to  the  grey  mountains, 
and  then  at  the  sea,  that  miraculous  southern  sea  with  its 
varying  shades  of  amethyst,  lapis  lazuli  and  pearl. 

"I  am  going  to  climb  all  those  hills  before  we  go  home." 

Two  Frenchwomen  in  black  came  round  the  curve  of  the 
path,  and  appeared  interested  in  one  particular  grave.  Con- 
stance stood  up,  still  holding  the  bunch  of  violets. 

"Come,  I  want  to  look." 

He  drifted  with  her  .whim. 


280  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"I  want  to  leave — what  shall  I  call  it? — the  scent  of  my 
happiness  with  someone." 

She  found  the  grave  of  a  child-wife  who  had  come  from  a 
far  country  to  sleep  by  the  Middle  Sea,  and  she  laid  the 
violets  upon  the  stone,  gently,  tenderly,  with  a  sigh  of  under- 
standing. 

"Poor  child."  She  spoke  caressingly.  "I  wonder  whether  it 
was  hard  to  go?  It  must  have  been.  And  yet  that  de- 
pends   " 

Her  eyes  flashed  up  to  his,  and  he  understood  the  look  in 
them. 

"May  I  never  prove  unworthy,"  he  said  in  his  own  heart. 


Chapter  Thirty-three 


JL  O  WAKE  early  on  a  February  morning,  throw  open  the 
shutters,  and  let  in  a  rush  of  southern  sunshine,  should  lift 
the  most  pusillanimous  of  souls  into  a  divine  good  humour. 
It  should  be  enough  to  be  able  to  utter  the  cry,  "Ah,  to  be 
out  of  England  now  the  wet  winter's  there."  Sometimes  it  is 
difficult  to  believe  that  the  grey  land  beyond  the  grey  sea 
really  exists,  and  Constance,  standing  with  bare  feet  upon  the 
polished  boards  and  watching  a  dawn  that  was  all  orange 
and  azure  and  rose,  thought  of  England  as  a  dreary,  sordid 
memory  lost  in  the  grey  murk  of  the  northern  skies.  She 
looked  out  on  a  sea  that  lost  itself  on  the  horizon  in  a  mys- 
tery of  sunlit,  opalescent  vapour.  Below  all  was  placid  and 
radiant  and  very  still,  the  cypresses  moving  never  a  finger, 
the  olives  motionless  screens  of  grey-green  filigree.  The  colours 
were  intense  and  miraculous,  the  air  full  of  the  scent  of 
mimosa  and  the  fragrance  of  growth. 

She  knew  that  it  rained  sometimes  most  dismally,  that  the 
mistral  blew;  but  then  there  was  the  atmosphere  of  hope,  of 
the  inevitable  buoyant  sunshine.  She  had  never  loved  light 

281 


282  THE  WHITE  GATE 

so  much  before,  or  felt  such  a  desire  to  bathe  in  it,  to  run 
out  naked  into  the  sunshine.  Leaning  on  the  iron  rail,  she 
wondered  whether  she  could  see  Corsica  as  a  faint  blue  out- 
line against  the  pearly  greyness  of  the  horizon.  Yet  what  did 
it  matter  whether  the  island  rose  for  her  like  a  magician's 
island  spun  round  with  gold  and  floating  upon  a  purple  sea? 
Life  lay  nearer  home,  life  and  the  delight  thereof.  She  felt 
full  of  an  intense  inquisitiveness  and  of  a  firefly  energy  that 
panted  to  dart  hither  and  thither,  sunning  its  iridescent  wings. 

It  was  to  be  a  great  day,  and  it  had  dawned  most  perfecdy. 
She  had  thrills  of  expectation  when  she  glanced  at  her  watch 
and  thought  of  deciding  upon  what  she  should  wear.  It  was 
a  serious  and  most  charming  problem  on  such  a  morning; 
moreover,  one  of  the  surest  indications  of  the  state  of  a 
woman's  health  is  the  degree  of  interest  that  she  takes  in 
dress. 

She  lay  down  again  for  a  while,  her  face  towards  the 
window  so  that  she  could  see  the  sea  and  watch  the  blueness 
thereof  change  under  the  changing  lights  of  the  dawn.  But 
her  quietism  was  not  for  long,  seeing  that  the  morning  had 
all  the  thrills  of  a  birthday  morning  for  a  child  of  seven, 
and  there  was  a  wardrobe  full  of  clothes  waiting  to  be  chosen 
and  a  mirror  to  be  looked  in.  She  was  astonished  at  her  own 
vitality.  Something  seemed  to  have  lifted.  She  felt  as  though 
translated  to  some  smaller  planet  where  the  force  of  gravity 
was  less  than  upon  the  earth,  and  where  the  body  had  gained 
a  sense  of  miraculous  lightness  and  strength. 

The  morning's  toilet  was  sacramental.  She  put  on  the  most 
delicate  and  belaced  lingerie  she  possessed,  and  spent  much 
time  over  the  doing  of  her  hair.  For  her  dress  she  chose  a 
plain  white  linen,  deciding  to  wear  over  it  a  cerise-coloured 


THE  WHITE  GATE  283 

French  woollen  jacket  that  Richard  had  bought  her.  Nor  can 
the  colour  of  stockings  be  treated  with  careless  levity,  save  by 
the  women  to  whom  all  the  nicer  details  of  dress  are  patheti- 
cally superfluous.  The  sloven  and  the  intellectualist  are  often 
on  the  same  low  level,  yet  the  clever  woman  who  forgets  her 
body  is  more  contemptible  than  the  slut.  It  is  more  than 
probable  that  the  outside  of  the  head  is  more  important  than 
the  interior,  granted,  of  course,  that  well-dressed  hair  and  the 
utterly  suitable  hat  do  not  cover  the  brain  of  an  arrant  fool. 

Constance's  mirror  was  kind  to  her  that  morning,  for  a 
mirror  has  its  moods,  and  may  sympathetically  reflect  or 
mischievously  flout  the  moods  of  its  mistress.  Black  hair,  pale 
face  and  throat,  white  dress,  cerise  jacket — the  scheme  was 
very  pleasant,  and  suited  the  psyche  of  the  wearer.  Her  ex- 
pectancy shook  hands  with  her  sense  of  the  beauty  of  life. 
She  felt  half  a  stranger  to  herself,  and  very  grateful  to  her 
mirror. 

On  her  way  downstairs  she  met  fat  Anna,  who  was  most 
dramatically  and  eloquently  moved  at  the  sight  of  her. 

"Ah,  madame,  vous  etes  tres  gentille!  It  ees  splendeed  that 
you  are  looking;  what  the  English  call  'slap  up'!" 

"Thank  you,  Anna.  Is  monsieur  down?" 

"He  is  very  forward,  is  monsieur;  he  tell  me  to  cut  sand- 
weeches,  and  put  fruit  and  a  bottle  of  Asti  in  a  basket.  An 
expedition  h  deux\  But  madame  is  a  new  woman!  La  belle 
couleur!" 

Skelton  was  standing  at  the  open  window  of  the  salle  & 
manger,  watching  a  big  blue-black  carpenter  bee  booming  to 
and  fro  over  the  beds  of  wallflowers  on  the  terrace.  He  turned 
sharply  as  Constance  entered  the  room  and  paused  where 


284  THE  WHITE  GATE 

the  morning  sunlight  made  the  polished  boards  shine  like 
glass. 

"Hallo!" 

She  had  no  need  to  consider  her  triumph. 

"Just  stop  there  one  moment,  with  your  face  in  the  shadow 
and  the  light  on  your  dress." 

"You'll  make  me  shy." 

"I  say,  do  you  know  that  you  are  a  confoundedly  good- 
looking  young  woman?  And  you  know  how  to  dress." 

"You  chose  this  for  me." 

"I  congratulate  myself.  Thank  God  you  have  got  the  femi- 
nine instincts.  I  can't  stand  the  muscular  and  bronzed  young 
woman." 

She  laughed  and  coloured. 

"May  I  move  now,  Dick,  please?" 

"Perhaps.  I'll  consider  it." 

"If  you  stare  at  me  like  this " 

"My  dear,  do  you  know  you  have  made  me  forget  all  about 
breakfast!  That's  a  triumph  for  any  woman  at  nine  o'clock 
in  the  morning!  Come  hither.  What  a  sweet,  fresh  thing  it 
is,  with  a  skin  like  milk." 

They  heard  Anna  clearing  her  throat  suggestively  as  she 
crossed  the  hall  with  the  coffee.  Her  black  eyes  were  full  of 
mischievous  satisfaction. 

"Will  monsieur  have  honey  or  marmalade?" 

"Oh,  both,  Anna.  And,  I  say,  don't  forget  to  put  some  dates 
into  the  luncheon  basket — le  panier  de  dejeuner,  you  know." 

"Yes,  monsieur;  and  a  tire-bouchon  for  the  wine." 

"Tire-bouchon?  What  on  earth's  that?" 

"A  corkscrew,  monsieur." 

"Admirable  Anna!" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  285 

Constance's  mirror  had  pleased  her,  but  the  eyes  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table  outflattered  any  mirror.  Skelton  began 
to  tease  her  from  the  day's  beginning,  and  all  his  tenderness 
had  a  glitter  of  mischief. 

"I  am  going  to  make  you  ride  half-way  up  the  mule-path 
to  Castellar." 

"But  you  promised " 

"You  don't  know  these  mule-paths,  picturesque  but  bumpy. 
Wait  and  see.  I  have  ordered  a  most  debonair  donkey,  and 
when  we  get  among  the  olives  I'll  play  the  angel  of  the 
Lord,  and  the  ass  shall  be  turned  back." 

"Mind  he  does  not  speak!" 

"He  would  only  give  us  a  blessing.  'Thanks  be  to  God  for 
the  English  lady  who  rides  like  a  rose  leaf  and  defends  us 
from  Deutschers  who  ride  like  pumpkins.' " 

The  ascent  towards  Castellar  was  in  every  way  triumphant. 
A  donkey  named  "Giroflee"  carried  Constance  up  the  wind- 
ing grey-cobbled  path  over  the  rocks  and  through  the  fir 
thickets,  between  vineyards  and  wild  banks  where  rosemary 
was  in  bloom.  Giroflee  and  her  flat-hatted  owner  were  dis- 
missed as  soon  as  they  reached  the  upper  terraces  where  the 
olives  grew,  and  Skelton  loaded  himself  with  the  luncheon 
basket,  mackintoshes,  and  a  little  hamper  of  fruit. 

"I  seem  to  be  Giroflee  the  Second!  A  pity  we  haven't  got 
a  camera  and  a  campstool  and  a  few  more  accessories!" 

"Let  me  carry  something." 

"Young  woman,  it  is  as  much  as  your  place  is  worth  to 
suggest  such  a  thing!" 

They  climbed  the  grey  path  at  their  leisure,  turning  often 
to  look  back  through  the  grey  lacework  of  the  olive  leaves 
at  the  vivid  sea,  or  at  Cap  Martin  thrusting  a  green  wedge 


286  THE  WHITE  GATE 

into  the  blue,  or  at  the  Convent  of  the  Annunciata  with  its 
little  grove  of  cypresses  upon  the  opposite  ridge.  In  the  deeps 
of  the  valley  below  was  a  glimmering  of  oranges  and  lemons, 
and  along  the  terraces  under  the  olive  trees  the  grass  and 
herbage  were  a  rare  green. 

Skelton  watched  Constance  anxiously,  yet  without  appear- 
ing to  watch  her. 

"How  farest  thou,  O  Pearl  of  the  Hills?" 

"I  feel  I  could  go  on  for  ever.  The  air  is  so  wonderful." 

"And  the  heart  does  not  hurry?" 

"No,  no." 

It  was  about  noon  when  they  gained  the  hill  town  with 
its  weather-soiled  church  tower  and  its  grey  stone  houses.  The 
path  of  entry  was  none  too  clean,  yet  the  quaint  vista  of 
narrow,  stone-walled  streets  carried  the  eyes  above  the  more 
obvious  defects.  A  house  near  the  church,  a  house  with  painted 
walls  and  a  little  out  jutting  green  balcony,  caught  Skelton's 
eyes. 

"Here's  a  place  for  a  rope-ladder  and  a  romance  by  moon- 
light. 

"At  Castellaro 
Young  Giuliano 
Twanged  a  gitaro 
Under  the  stars-o." 

The  flash  of  her  laughter  was  very  provocative. 
"Isn't  it  delightful!" 
"And  dirty!" 

"But  just  stand  and  look  down  this  street." 
"A  good  show  of  washing — of  sorts — and   chickens  and 
sundries!" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  287 

They  explored,  glancing  into  the  basements  that  appeared 
to  serve  as  chicken-houses  and  stables,  and  up  the  worn  wind- 
ing stairways.  The  rough  grey  walls,  with  their  windows 
glazed  or  stuffed  with  boards,  were  rather  suggestive  of  pos- 
sible mishaps.  The  vaulted  passageways  between  the  streets, 
the  church,  the  public  washing-place  for  clothes,  the  square 
— all  had  to  be  appreciated.  The  battered  and  squalid  pic- 
turesqueness  of  the  little  town  delighted  them  both. 

Refusing  to  be  cajoled  into  patronising  the  innkeeper's 
"Grande  et  Vaste  Terrasse"  and  be  charged  double  price  for  a 
bottle  of  wine  because  of  the  view,  they  made  their  way  back 
through  Castellar  and  drifted  into  the  olive  groves. 

"What  about  lunch?" 

"I  haven't  felt  so  hungry  for  years." 

"Hurrah!  Let's  be  Arcadians  under  the  olives." 

They  chose  a  solitary  spot  on  a  terrace  where  there  were 
violets  growing  in  the  grass,  and  Skelton  spread  the  mackin- 
toshes so  that  they  could  sit  with  their  backs  resting  against 
the  rough  stone  wall.  A  haze  of  grey-green  foliage  dropped 
away  from  them  into  the  deeps  of  the  valley.  They  heard  the 
clock  of  Castellar  striking,  but  otherwise  there  was  no  sound. 

"Now  for  the  tire-bouchon.  It  sounds  like  a  term  of  affec- 
tion! Dear  bouchon,  dear,  dear  bouchon\" 

She  laughed  happily  at  his  fooling,  and  watched  the  yel- 
low Asti  bubbling  into  the  glasses. 

"Drink  deep." 

"To  you." 

"And  to  you." 

They  ate  like  hungry  children,  carefully  putting  away  all 
paper  and  debris  so  as  not  to  desecrate  the  pleasant  greenness 


288  THE  WHITE  GATE 

of  the  place.  When  the  meal  was  over,  Constance  repacked 
the  basket,  while  Skelton  lit  his  pipe. 

"You  can't  enjoy  this  part  of  the  performance." 

"I  can  enjoy  seeing  you  enjoy  it." 

"Vicariously.  What  an  admirable  woman!  Not  feeling 
cold?" 

"No." 

He  looked  at  her  with  critical  appreciation. 

"Yes,  very  delightful.  Just  a  touch  of  colour  and  sparkle. 
Wine  suits  you." 

"Perhaps  it  is  not  the  wine." 

"Something  else?" 

"Happiness." 

They  fell  into  a  silent  and  dreamy  interlude,  content  to 
gaze  down  into  the  mist  of  olive  leaves  and  the  network  of 
black,  wriggling  boughs.  Skelton's  pipe  went  out,  and  he  did 
not  relight  it.  They  could  see  the  grey  flanks  of  the  moun- 
tains towering  into  the  bleak  solitudes  above.  Here  and  there 
a  white  cloud  drifted. 

Constance  made  a  sudden  movement,  reaching  out  and 
touching  his  arm. 

"I  want  to  talk.  Come  here." 

She  smoothed  her  dress  with  her  hands. 

"Put  your  head  here.  I  want  to  talk." 

He  lay  down  even  as  she  desired,  his  head  in  her  lap, 
his  eyes  looking  straight  up  at  the  blue  sky  above  the  olive 
boughs.  She  smoothed  his  hair,  and  ran  her  fingers  across 
his  forehead. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  dear.  I  shan't  fuss  you  when  you  don't 
want  to  be  fussed." 

"Where  did  you  learn  that?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  289 

"Oh,  instinct — perhaps.  But  it  is  my  day  to-day." 

"Yours  to  the  last  second." 

"I  want  you  to  talk  to  me.  There  are  lines  here — some- 
times." 

"Where?" 

"Here,  on  your  forehead." 

"That's  nothing." 

"But  I  am  going  to  be  the  remover  of  wrinkles." 

"You  are,  are  you?" 

"Now  don't  tease,  Dick.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  want  you  to  talk 
to  me.  I  want  you  to  take  me  into  your  life,  into  all  your 
ambitions  and  worries.  You'll  take  me  in,  won't  you?  I'm — 
I'm  your  wife  at  last." 

He  caught  her  hands,  drew  them  down,  and  kissed  them. 

"I'll  show  you  every  corner  of  myself." 

She  sighed  caressingly. 

"It  will  make  me  even  happier.  I  want  to  be  you,  dear, 
and  I  want  you  to  be  me.  I  don't  want  you  ever  to  keep 
things  from  me  because  you  think  I  shall  worry." 

"I  always  thought  I  was  no  fool." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  married  you.  That  was  a  stroke  of  genius." 


Chapter  Thirty-four 


A  WARM,  still  evening  followed  the  day  of  their  climb 
to  Castellar,  and  when  they  had  dined  Constance  opened 
the  French  window  that  led  on  to  the  terrace. 

"Dick,  come  and  look." 

A  full  moon  had  risen,  a  great  disk  of  silver  that  poured 
light  upon  the  mountains  and  the  sea.  A  line  of  scattered 
silver  edged  the  shore,  and  the  far  horizon  seemed  lit  by 
phosphorescent  light.  Breaking  the  line  of  the  terrace  rose  a 
group  of  cypresses  black  as  ebony.  The  night  was  supremely 
still,  and  as  warm  as  many  a  June  night  in  England  now  that 
the  sudden  chill  that  comes  with  the  sunset  had  passed. 

"Let's  come  out  here  on  the  terrace." 

"Wait,  I'll  get  you  a  cloak." 

They  wandered  out  together  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace  and 
looked  down  at  the  mysterious  black  tangle  of  gardens,  the 
glimmering  sea,  and  at  the  swarthy  masses  of  the  mountains 
piling  up  into  the  clear  sky.  The  night  was  full  of  perfumes, 
the  scent  of  the  palm  flower  and  mimosa.  A  faint  and  pleas- 
ant murmur  came  from  the  town  below. 

290 


THE  WHITE  GATE  291 

"What  mystery!" 

"The  beginning  and  end  of  all  our  fussy  knowledge." 

She  breathed  in  deep  breaths,  her  face  slightly  upturned. 

"Let  us  stay  out  here  for  a  while." 

"I'll  get  you  your  long  chair." 

He  dragged  it  out  into  the  moonlight. 

"Now  for  a  cushion.  Shall  you  feel  warm  enough?" 

"Quite.  Light  your  pipe,  Dick." 

"It  will  spoil  the  fragrance!" 

"I  like  it.  I  think  I  shall  always  keep  some  tobacco  near  me 
when  you  are  away." 

"Many  people  would  quarrel  with  your  taste!" 

"It  seems  to  me  that  one  can  spoil  one's  life  by  listening 
to  the  'many  people.' " 

She  lay  in  the  moonlight  with  a  cloak  wrapped  round  her, 
and  Skelton  sat  in  a  garden  chair  at  her  side,  the  smoke  from 
his  pipe  floating  away  in  grey  wisps.  It  was  tranquil  and 
very  still,  and  neither  of  them  felt  any  urgent  desire  to  talk,, 
perhaps  because  they  were  so  full  of  the  knowledge  of  their 
spiritual  nearness  to  each  other.  It  had  been  a  day  of  vision 
for  them  both,  and  the  night  had  a  new  meaning. 

"Dick!" 

A  hand  came  out  to  him. 

"I  want  to  say  something." 

"Say  on." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  alone  any  more.  I  mean,  I  want  you 
always." 

"Well?" 

"I'll  whisper  it." 

He  put  his  head  down  close  to  hers. 

"I  want  to  be  your  wife — every  bit  your  wife." 


292  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"It  is  with  you  to  choose." 

"I  do  choose.  I  could  never  be  afraid  of  you,  dear.  And 
it  makes  it  more  sacred." 

He  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her. 

"You'll  never  find  me  a  rough  beast,  Connie.  Yes,  all  that's 
enormously  overrated.  It's  the  you,  not  the  other  thing,  that 
matters." 


Chapter  Thirty-five 


•3  KELT  ON  found  several  letters  waiting  for  him  when  he 
came  downstairs  next  morning,  and  among  them  was  one 
in  John  Cuthbertson's  handwriting.  He  took  them  with  him 
on  to  the  terrace,  and  sitting  on  the  parapet  opened  his 
friend's  letter  with  an  unflurried  leisureliness  that  had  itself 
well  under  control.  In  all  probability  this  letter  meant  so 
much  to  them  both,  so  far  as  material  things  were  concerned, 
but  in  opening  it  Skelton  prepared  himself  to  expect  bad 
news. 

But  it  proved  to  be  otherwise,  and  Cuthbertson  wrote 
to  say  that  Doyle  had  accepted  their  terms,  and  that  it  was 
agreed  that  Skelton,  as  the  inventor  and  patentee,  should 
receive  five  hundred  pounds  down  and  a  handsome  royalty 
on  all  profits.  The  first  full-sized  Skelton  heavy-oil  engine 
and  railway  motor  coach  were  being  built,  and  were  to  be 
tried  experimentally  on  a  special  rail  track  laid  down  on 
the  ground  at  Harpenden.  Moreover,  a  carburettor  of  his 
invention  that  Cuthbertson  had  put  on  the  market  was 
beginning  to  sell.  The  agreements  and  contracts  between 
them  and  Doyle  were  being  sent  out  for  his  signature. 

293 


294  THE  WHITE  GATE 

So  I  am  less  of  a  wet  blanket  this  time,  old  man.  I  hope  your 
wife  is  better.  We  shall  be  wanting  you  over  here  before  long, 
but  we  can  knock  along  for  the  time  being. 

I  think  this  is  going  to  be  a  big  thing.  There's  money  in  it,  and 
more  than  money  so  far  as  you  are  concerned.  I  have  never  seen 
Doyle  so  unctuous  and  affable.  He  has  always  been  a  rare  picker 
of  other  men's  brains.  He  wanted  your  address,  and  I  gave  it  him, 
but  you  know  your  man. 

The  best  of  everything  to  you  both. 

Skelton  ran  upstairs  like  a  boy  and  knocked  at  his  wife's 
door. 

"Hallo!  Can  I  come  in?" 

"Yes." 

He  found  her  sitting  in  front  of  her  mirror,  wearing  a 
light  blue  dressing-jacket  and  a  white  lace  petticoat. 

"Good  news." 

"From  Mr.  Cuthbertson?" 

"Yes.  Read  that." 

She  flushed  up  sensitively,  and  her  hands  trembled  a  little 
as  she  held  the  letter. 

"How  splendid!" 

"Good,  isn't  it?" 

She  jumped  up  and  kissed  him. 

"I'm  so  glad,  so  glad,  because  I  know  how  desperately 
generous  you've  been  to  me.  Isn't  it  strange  that  it  should 
have  come  just  this  very  morning?" 

"I  suppose  it  is  one  of  those  rare  occasions  when  Fate 
chooses  to  play  the  benignant  uncle  sort  of  business.  By 
Heaven,  we'll  celebrate!  You  shall  have  your  first  day  at 
Monte  Carlo,  lunch  at  Re's,  and  do  an  hour's  shopping." 

"But,  Dick,  I  don't  want " 

"Don't  want  what?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  295 

"You  to  spend  a  lot  of  money  on  me.  You  have  had  to 
work  hard  for  it." 

"Good  heavens,  what's  money  for?  And  what  is  a  very 
charming  wife  for?  You  are  not  one  of  the  selfish  women 
who  seem  to  expect  everything  and  never  think  of  giving 
anything  in  return." 

"Well,  we  can  take  the  tram." 

"Tram!" 

"Yes,  by  Cap  Martin.  Anna  says " 

"Young  woman,  do  you  talk  of  trams  on  such  an  occasion! 
I  never  heard  such  bathos!  We  will  have  the  smartest  car 
we  can  hire  in  Mentone.  And  remember,  you  have  got  to  live 
up  to  a  most  gorgeous  day." 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  shone. 

"What  shall  I  wear,  Dick?" 

"Something  simple.  That  white  and  cerise  is  very  fetching. 
Yes,  let's  have  white  and  cerise." 

"Have  you  noticed  that  Mrs.  Parsons  is  very  fond  of  those 
particular  colours?" 

"Is  she?  I've  never  noticed  it.  I  don't  believe  I  could  tell 
you  whether  Mrs.  Parsons  was  clothed  or  naked." 

"Dick!" 

"Well,  it's  only  a  way  of  expressing  my  lack  of  interest  in 
ninety-nine  women  out  of  a  hundred.  Give  me  men,  and 
none  of  the  confounded  social  nonsense.  Most  women  bore 
me  horribly." 

"That  makes  my  responsibility  very  heavy." 

"Do  you  think  I  should  have  married  a  bore!  You're  a  fire- 
fly to  me,  a  bit  of  radium." 

"I  hope  it  will  always  be  like  that." 

"Now,  no  problems.  Life's  full  of  go,  of  Man,  as  Bergson 


296  THE  WHITE  GATE 

says.  The  thing  is  to  live  out,  do  things,  create,  enjoy  to  the 
uttermost,  let  life  flow  fast  through  us,  and  not  get  in  a 
metaphysical  tangle.  Come  along,  Melisande,  breakfast  in  ten 
minutes.  I'll  get  Anna  to  roll  down  and  order  our  triumphal 
car." 

The  car  arrived  at  ten,  a  smart  affair  with  fawn-coloured 
cushions  and  red  wheels.  Anna  saw  them  off  from  the  ter- 
race steps,  a  figure  that  should  have  thrown  confetti  and 
beamed  congratulations. 

"Now,  then,  how  do  you  like  the  feeling  of  swagger?" 

"Is  it  swagger?" 

"That  depends  upon  moods,  past  and  present." 

"I  think  I  could  swagger — on  occasions." 

"Ah!  Now,  then,  confess." 

"Over  your  triumphs." 

"Now,  what  am  I  to  say  to  that?" 

The  car  ratded  through  the  narrow  streets,  across  the  Place 
St.  Roche,  and  on  past  the  band-stand  and  the  gardens,  where 
the  newsboys  were  shouting  Le  Matin,  the  Daily  Mail,  and 
L'Echo  de  Paris,  and  the  pleasant  fat  person  in  the  big  straw 
hat  went  round  collecting  ten-centime  pieces  for  chairs.  The 
sea  was  in  one  of  its  bluest  moods,  and  there  was  a  wash  of 
foam  about  Cap  Martin. 

"Dick,  look!" 

They  had  reached  that  part  of  the  lower  road  where  one 
has  a  view  across  the  bay  with  the  headland  of  Monaco  and 
Monte  Carlo  lying  far  below  the  crouching  mass  of  the  Tete 
de  Chien.  The  sunlight  played  upon  the  Casino  and  upon 
the  white  hotels  and  houses,  with  the  grey  landscape  rising 
behind  them  to  the  blue  of  the  sky.  Below,  along  the  coast, 
the  black  rocks  showed  in  the  shallow  water,  water  that  had 


THE  WHITE  GATE  297 

the  colour  of  turquoise  and  lapis  lazuli.  Villas  and  gardens 
seemed  to  float  on  the  edge  of  the  sea,  with  their  palms  and 
cypresses  and  firs,  their  orange  and  lemon  trees  and  mimosa. 
Along  the  rocks  below  cliff-perched  Roquebrunne  the  tree 
spurges  were  ablaze  with  their  cups  of  gold. 

"Splendid,  isn't  it— if  a  little  dusty?" 

She  was  flushed  and  moved  inwardly. 

"I  have  never  seen  anything  like  it." 

Betimes  they  came  to  that  most  strange  place,  Monte  Carlo. 
Somehow  this  pleasure  town  by  the  southern  sea  strikes  one 
as  being  outside  criticism,  the  especial  puppet-show  of  the 
gods.  It  is  useless  to  bring  to  it  the  carping,  moral  spirit  of 
the  North,  with  its  prurience  and  its  ashen  eyes  that  look 
askance  at  nature.  A  haunt  of  gamblers,  courtesans,  adven- 
turers, decadents  it  may  be,  and  its  artificiality  may  stink  in 
the  nostrils  of  those  simple  folk  who  love  all  that  is  obvious, 
but  that  the  place  has  its  human  fascination  no  one  can 
question.  It  is  a  sort  of  gaudy  side-show  off  the  dull  track  of 
respectable  habits — foolish  perhaps,  dangerous  to  some,  not 
without  pathos — but  always  infinitely  interesting.  You  can 
be  splendidly  fed  and  bled  there,  hear  some  of  the  finest  music 
in  the  world,  be  initiated  into  sexual  matters  by  the  most 
absolute  experts,  and  see  half  the  celebrities  in  Europe  if  you 
stay  long  enough.  Cosmopolitan  and  chaotic,  this  little  world 
will  show  you  grand  dukes  and  Russian  dancers,  tarnished 
women  from  other  countries  recovering  a  dubious  social  dis- 
tinction, men  who  have  become  pimps  and  bullies,  pick- 
pockets, cranks,  innocents,  Cook's  "respectables,"  statesmen, 
pugilists,  courtesans.  You  can  spend  a  day  in  Monte  Carlo 
and  spend  ten  centimes,  or  bankrupt  yourself  in  half  an 


298  THE  WHITE  GATE 

hour.  It  is  subtle,  obliging,  adaptable,  ready  to  welcome  any 
mood. 

Constance  was  a  little  dazzled,  a  little  oppressed  by  the 
complex  newness  of  everything.  With  Skelton  it  was  very 
different.  He  had  come  by  that  personal  poise  that  is  never 
hustled  out  of  its  individuality  or  made  to  feel  self-conscious 
by  any  collection  of  humans  whatsoever.  The  ego  in  him 
remained  the  ego,  observant,  tolerant,  a  little  amused,  vastly 
interested  in  some  ways,  non-moral.  It  may  take  a  man  years 
to  learn  that  an  archbishop  and  a  duchess,  a  mobsman  and  a 
courtesan,  are  not  very  unlike  when  you  remove  their  social 
decorations.  One  ought  not  to  be  dominated  by  any  set  of 
people  or  of  circumstances,  or  by  any  arrogant  arrangements 
of  the  stuff  that  we  call  matter. 

He  watched   Constance,   and  was  affectionately   amused. 

"These  places  are  apt  to  make  one  feel  a  little — shy?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Or  diminutive?" 

"Perhaps." 

"I  have  had  the  feeling  as  a  youngster;  one  feels  suddenly 
that  one  does  not  belong." 

The  car  reached  the  top  of  the  gardens  where  the  road 
turns  down  to  the  Casino.  The  stretch  of  grass  under  and 
between  the  trees,  the  gorgeous  mosaic  of  flowers,  primulas, 
cyclamen,  violas,  daisies,  played  upon  by  the  sunshine,  made 
a  rich  carpet  of  entry  into  the  precincts  of  this  pagan  temple 
of  life.  Constance  met  the  eyes  of  strange  foreign  men.  They 
stared  at  her  in  a  queer,  appraising,  critical  way.  Some  of  the 
women  she  saw  made  her  think  of  pale,  inhuman  people 
with  hungry  nostrils  and  mouths  red  after  sucking  blood. 

The  car  set  them  down  outside  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  and 


THE  WHITE  GATE  299 

Skelton  told  the  driver  to  wait  for  them  there  again  about  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

"Supposing  we  walk  on  the  terrace  before  lunch,  and  go 
into  the  rooms  afterwards?" 

"Yes,  I  would  rather  do  that." 

They  passed  round  the  Casino  and  down  the  steps  to  the 
lower  terrace  where  the  crowd  idled  to  and  fro  in  the  sun- 
shine, the  white  building  above  and  the  blue  sea  below  strik- 
ing a  balance  between  artifice  and  nature.  Pigeon  shooting 
was  going  on  from  the  pavilion  below  the  terrace,  and  a  line 
of  people  were  watching  the  little  traps  opening  one  after 
another,  the  birds  hurtling  out  to  be  knocked  over  and  re- 
trieved by  a  well-trained  dog.  Two  white  motor-boats  had 
just  come  out  of  Monaco  harbour,  and  were  tearing  to  and 
fro  with  jets  of  foam  at  their  bows. 

Skelton  and  his  wife  strolled  up  and  down,  studying  and 
being  studied.  To  Constance  the  terrace  of  the  Casino  had 
an  atmosphere  of  brilliant  and  extraordinary  publicity,  seem- 
ing to  be  a  kind  of  stage  where  self -consciousness  was  stripped 
naked  and  made  to  run  and  dance.  She  was  struck,  too,  by 
the  dull  colours  of  the  crowd  and  by  the  bourgeois  look  of 
most  of  the  figures.  She  had  expected  unimaginable  smart- 
ness, but  discovered  that  the  majority  of  the  people  were 
badly  dressed  and  badly  bred,  to  judge  by  their  exteriors. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Monte?" 

"It's  not  half  so  smart  as  I  expected." 

"Just  a  crowd  of  rather  third-rate  people.  I  suppose  the 
place  has  its  spring  and  neap  tides.  But,  after  all,  it  is  the 
demi-mondaine  who  sets  the  fashion,  and  all  the  good  ladies 
run  after  her  to  get  ideas!" 

"How  some  of  the  men  stare!" 


300  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Beasts!  Still,  it's  no  worse  than  in  London.  That's  what 
always  strikes  me  in  London,  that  most  of  the  men  have  the 
eyes  of  animals.  Any  scrub  of  a  clerk  goes  about  ogling 
women  who  wouldn't  let  him  lick  their  shoes.  The  foul  con- 
ceit of  fools.  Hallo!" 

They  were  sailed  down  upon  and  surprised  by  Mrs.  Madge 
Parsons,  gowned  in  a  fine  Paris  creation  of  opalescent  grey, 
and  wearing  a  huge  black  hat.  She  had  a  sallow-looking 
woman  with  her,  a  woman  with  a  negroid  face  and  a  black 
colour  scheme  as  to  hair,  dress  and  gloves.  The  two  women 
did  not  look  as  though  they  harmonised;  Madge  Parsons  had 
the  eyes  of  one  who  was  badly  bored. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Skelton,  how  well  you  look!  Jim  is  having 
a  day  at  the  tables.  Let  me  introduce  my  cousin — Mrs.  Hogg 
Thomson.  Isn't  it  a  gorgeous  day?  My  cousin  is  much  too 
clever  for  me;  she  writes  books;  don't  you,  Hildegarde?  My 
dear,  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Her  explosive  amiability  split  up  the  party,  leaving  Skel- 
ton paired  with  the  sallow  woman  in  black. 

"Are  you  staying  in  Monte  Carlo,  Mr.  Skelton?" 

"No.  Over  at  Mentone." 

"I  must  say  I  like  the  little  soulful  places  away  from  the 
crowd." 

"Yes." 

"But,  of  course,  one  must  see  everything.  I  have  to  see 
everything  because  of  my  books,  and  my  art  as  a  writer.  I 
assure  you,  that  when  I  wrote  my  book  on  Algiers  and 
Tunis,  I  saw  everything — everything.  One  must  have  a  cos- 
mopolitan culture." 

She  was  one  of  those  women  who  dissolved  at  once  into 
confidences.  Her  voluble  mouth  had  the  appearance  of  being 


THE  WHITE  GATE  301 

made  of  pink  rubber,  and  she  shot  out  a  pointed  and  periodic 
tongue  to  moisten  her  lips.  Her  blue  eyes  were  protuberant 
and  rather  strained,  as  though  pushing  forward  to  see  every- 
thing and  to  advertise  their  vision.  Her  hair  was  short,  black, 
and  curly;  her  throat  fat,  unctuous  and  sallow;  her  voice  the 
kind  of  voice  that  is  associated  with  enlarged  tonsils.  The 
woman  was  the  worst  type  of  egotist;  the  sentimental  and 
selfishly  emotional  egotist.  It  did  not  take  Skelton  long  to 
sum  her  up. 

"Isn't  it  simply  abominable,  shooting  these  poor  pigeons! 
Under  the  blue  sky,  too,  with  so  many  beautiful  things  to  be 
seen.  To  me  it  is  so  typical  of  a  decadent  civilisation." 

"It  does  seem  rather  superfluous." 

Her  throaty  voice  began  to  pulsate  with  feeling.  She  talked 
hungrily,  as  though  desiring  to  masticate  her  subject  thor- 
oughly. Nor  did  she  pause  to  hear  what  Skelton  might  have 
to  say. 

"The  place  makes  me  shudder.  Those  horrible  gaming 
rooms,  and  the  horrible  faces,  like  Aubrey  Beardsley's  faces. 
Things  impress  me  so  vividly;  one  has  to  suffer  for  being  an 
artist.  I  am  writing  a  book  about  the  Riviera;  yes,  and  I  shall 
expose  this  horrible  butchery  of  birds.  The  public  must  be 
made  to  think.  We  have  our  responsibilities — we  who  study 
life." 

"The  public  is " 

She  was  off  again  with  a  splutter. 

"I  went  to  the  cemetery  yesterday,  and  I  am  sure  I  cried 
most  of  the  night.  You  ought  to  go  there  if  you  want  to 
sound  the  depths  of  decadence,  misery,  extinction.  Yes,  it  is 
an  experience  for  one  who  can  feel.  I  feel  everything  so 
acutely." 


302  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Skelton  had  a  stiff  upper  lip  and  cynical  eyes.  He  was 
watching  Constance  and  Mrs.  Parsons,  who  were  a  few  paces 
ahead  of  them. 

Here,  too,  the  conversation  was  largely  a  monologue  for 
the  moment. 

"My  dear,  you  look  wonderfully  better.  I  hardly  knew  you. 
Something  has  happened.  Now,  don't  protest." 

She  gave  Constance  a  sly  and  understanding  look. 

"It  brings  a  woman's  bloom  out.  But,  my  dear  girl,  you 
ought  to  study  your  dress  a  little." 

"Ah?" 

"Men  love  smartness,  but  every  resort  has  its  proper  note. 
You  ought  not  to  wear  bright  colours  at  Monte;  at  least, 
that's  my  view.  You  must  think  of  the  social  atmosphere  of 
a  place.  Something  soft  and  inconspicuous,  but  absolutely 
chic.  One  does  not  want  to  look  like — well,  you  know!" 

Constance  flushed. 

"My  husband " 

She  felt  the  false  step  and  recovered  it  quickly. 

"Isn't  it  a  matter  of  a  woman's  personality?" 

"Personality?" 

"Some  women  are  born  overdressed,  so  to  speak.  They 
have  to  tone  themselves  down." 

Skelton  was  close  behind  them,  listening  to  their  conver- 
sation, and  letting  Mrs.  Hildegarde  Hogg  Thomson  work  her 
India-rubber  mouth  into  negroid  volubility. 

"All  the  same,  my  dear,  it  takes  a  woman  a  good  many 
years  to  learn  to  dress  understandingly.  I  don't  think  good 
taste  is  always  born  with  one." 

"But  if  one  keeps  to  simplicity?" 

"It  depends  on  what  you  call  simplicity.  Besides,  a  woman 


THE  WHITE  GATE  303 

can  be  underdressed,  wearing  a  golf  jersey  when  she  ought 
to  be  in  a  smart  gown." 

"Better  than  being  in  a  smart  gown  when  it  would  be  better 
to  be  in  the  jersey." 

They  were  getting  perilously  near  the  edge  of  subtle  per- 
sonalities. 

"My  dear,  if  you  had  only  asked  me  to  go  with  you  when 
you  bought  that  jacket!  It  wants  just  a  shade  more  delicacy 
in  it." 

"I  think  it  pleases  me  very  well." 

"The  colour  is  a  little  crude." 

"A  girl  may  be  able  to  carry  a  colour  that  a  woman  of  fivc- 
and-thirty  cannot  wear.  Some  of  us  soften  colours;  others 
make  them  more  glaring." 

Mrs.  Parsons'  eyes  had  a  little  glitter  in  them. 

"We  must  all  please  ourselves,"  she  said. 

Skelton  had  been  able  to  catch  the  whole  of  the  argument, 
and  there  was  a  certain  pleased  and  applauding  amusement 
in  his  eyes. 

"Well  done.  You  have  given  her  shot  for  shot,  and  raked 
her  through  and  through.  Damn  the  woman's  impertinence! 
As  if  she  wasn't  always  in  danger  of  being  taken  for  a  super- 
fine barmaid!" 

Mrs.  Hogg  Thomson  was  in  the  thick  of  a  diatribe. 

"It's  the  shocking  egotism  of  the  place;  a  sort  of  miasma 
in  the  air.  Can't  you  feel  it  round  you?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  afraid  I  was  dreaming  for  a 
moment." 

She  gave  him  one  look,  and  her  mouth  seemed  to  fall  in. 

"How  delicate  your  wife  looks,  Mr.  Skelton." 

Her  eyes  said  "sickly." 


304  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Skelton  smiled. 

"Some  of  us  are  built  on  fine  lines.  Delightful  weather 
to-day,  isn't  it?  Have  you  seen  the  blue  frogs  at  the  china 
shop  in  Mentone?" 

The  party  reunited  itself  rather  abruptly,  and  then  split 
up  again  into  its  original  parts. 

Four  different  remarks  were  made  by  four  different  people. 

Mrs.  Hogg  Thomson's :  "An  engineer  ?  A  mechanical  mind, 
of  course.  That  explains  my  feeling  of  repulsion." 

Mrs.  Parsons':  "A  cleverer  little  pussy  cat  than  I  thought." 

Constance's:  "There  are  some  people  who  seem  to  drag  one 
down  to  a  lower  level,  and  make  one  feel  evil." 

Skel ton's:  "I  have  been  listening  to  a  white  negress  jabber- 
ing bosh." 

The  married  couple  went  off  to  lunch  at  Re's.  Mrs.  Hogg 
Thomson  had  brought  sandwiches.  Mrs.  Parsons  could  not 
face  the  ordeal  of  seeing  her  literary  cousin  eat  sandwiches 
on  the  Casino  terrace.  She  pleaded  "shopping,"  and  concealed 
herself  in  the  Cafe  de  Paris. 


HAVING  been  inspected  by  one  of  the  bored  gentlemen  in 
the  bureau,  and  given  their  card  of  entry,  Skelton  and  his 
wife  made  their  way  into  the  gaming  rooms.  The  main  room, 
with  its  air  of  tarnished  opulence,  had  an  empty  look  that 
afternoon,  the  roulette  tables  standing  like  so  many  isolated 
centres  of  attraction,  each  fringed  with  a  circle  of  seated  and 
standing  figures.  It  was  impossible  not  to  be  struck  by  the 
suggestion  of  feeding  troughs,  round  which  a  number  of 
intent  and  greedy  animals  crowded. 

The  habitues  were  there,  the  extraordinary  old  women  with 
grotesque  faces,  the  nondescript  men,  people  who  sat  there 
day  by  day,  and  made  gambling  a  business.  The  irresponsible 
and  purely  inquisitive  element  seemed  largely  absent.  There 
was  very  little  youth,  very  little  gaiety,  and  absolutely  no 
brilliance,  perilous  or  otherwise.  It  was  a  professional  crowd, 
stolidly  and  almost  swinishly  absorbed,  rather  squalid  in  ap- 
pearance and  not  impressive,  and  not  qualified  to  inspire  any 
idea  of  hazardous  and  heroic  vice. 

Constance  and  her  husband  found  a  table  where  they  could 

305 


306  THE  WHITE  GATE 

stand  and  watch  the  play.  The  master  of  the  table  was  a 
lean  man  with  a  morose  black  face,  and  a  metallic  voice  that 
seemed  to  come  clicking  rhythmically  out  of  an  iron  box. 

"Faites  vos  jeux,  messieurs.  Rien  ne  va  plus." 

The  croupiers,  alert  yet  bored,  amazingly  efficient,  sallow 
and  dispassionate,  juggled  with  rakes  and  coins.  There  was 
not  much  money  moving  on  the  table.  It  seemed  to  be  a  very 
bourgeois  circle,  largely  made  up  of  old  women  and  men  who 
might  have  sat  behind  a  counter.  They  pushed  out  their 
stakes  with  a  grudging,  shopkeeping  cautiousness;  some  of 
them  scribbled  figures  in  notebooks — stolid,  watchful,  greed- 
ily intent.  No  one  appeared  either  pleased  or  distressed.  The 
ball  spun  round,  the  money  went  to  and  fro,  the  metallic  voice 
sounded,  the  hands  kept  up  a  restless  dabbling  round  the 
edge  of  the  table. 

"Not  very  thrilling?" 

They  drew  back  a  little. 

"What  horrible  people!" 

"Isn't  it  a  serious,  sordid  business?  Just  watch  the  hands 
and  faces." 

"I  expected  something  quite  different." 

"Interesting  villains  and  beautiful  devils,  desperate  young 
men,  and  all  that?" 

"Perhaps." 

"I  don't  call  the  place  immoral.  It's  just  unpleasant." 

He  caught  someone's  eye. 

"Hallo,  there's  Jim  Parsons  over  there  at  the  end!  Let's 
go  and  watch  him." 

They  moved  to  the  end  of  the  table,  and  exchanged  casual 
greetings  over  the  back  of  Mr.  James  Parsons'  chair.  He  was 
sitting  between  a  huge,  swarthy  old  frau  in  rusty  black,  and 


THE  WHITE  GATE  307 

a  sallow  boy  whose  eyes  were  the  colour  of  ice.  James  Par- 
sons' face  was  about  the  only  fresh-coloured  one  at  the  table, 
and  the  particular  niceness  of  his  person  made  most  of  his 
neighbours  look  frowsy  and  unclean. 

"Winning?" 

"Right  out  of  luck  to-day." 

Constance  was  fascinated  by  the  old  frau  in  black.  She  had 
a  pile  of  louis  and  two  piles  of  five-franc  pieces  before  her, 
also  a  notebook  and  a  stubby  pencil.  Her  fingers  were  like 
little  bolsters,  the  nails  bitten  and  very  black.  Time  after  time 
she  staked  her  five-franc  pieces  with  stolid  deliberation,  licked 
her  pencil,  and  scribbled  in  her  notebook.  Her  face  was 
like  a  hideous  tallow  mask,  all  hairy  about  the  upper  lip  and 
chin,  with  bulges  under  the  eyes,  and  a  black  wart  on  one 
cheek.  She  never  looked  at  her  neighbours,  never  spoke, 
never  appeared  conscious  of  anything  but  the  green  table,  the 
money,  and  the  metallic  voice  that  called  out  the  numbers. 
She  was  winning  slowly,  and  she  seemed  to  sniff  lovingly  at 
the  little  piles  of  money. 

"Like  to  put  on  five  francs?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"Try." 

He  gave  her  a  five-franc  piece,  and  she  thought  of  a  num- 
ber. Twenty-three  came  into  her  head.  She  staked  on  a  simple 
chance,  James  Parsons  placing  the  piece  for  her.  Twenty-three 
turned  up. 

The  surprise  and  the  excitement  flushed  her.  She  had  to 
lean  over  the  old  German  to  take  the  notes  and  gold  the 
croupier  pushed  towards  her,  and  the  smell  of  the  old  woman 
was  like  the  smell  of  a  musty  cupboard. 

She  had  a  sudden  feeling  of  disgust,  repulsion. 


3o8  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Try  again." 

An  impulsive  and  half-contemptuous  whim  made  her  place 
a  louis  on  zero.  Parsons  gave  a  questioning  jerk  of  the  head 
and  then  followed  her  lead.  Zero  turned  up.  Constance  and 
James  Parsons  had  each  won  thirty-five  louis,  while  the  bank 
swept  in  the  rest  of  the  stakes. 

"I  say,  Mrs.  Skelton,  take  my  chair,  and  play  my  game 
for  me." 

He  was  eager,  excited,  insistent. 

"You  have  a  flair.  It's  one  of  the  lucky  moments.  Quick!" 

She  shook  her  head,  her  sensitive  nostrils  dilating  as  she 
looked  at  the  German  woman.  Her  husband  was  watching 
her. 

"No;  I  would  rather  not." 

"Nonsense." 

She  felt  that  people  were  staring,  and  that  many  of  the 
greedy  faces  were  turned  her  way. 

"No,  thank  you,  I  don't  care  to.  I  shall  not  play  any  more." 

"What  a  pity.  Luck  picks  out  innocence." 

She  felt  Skelton's  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Come  and  sit  down." 

She  gave  him  her  winnings,  and  he  took  her  to  one  of  the 
leather-covered  couches  against  the  wall. 

"The  air  is  pretty  pestiferous  in  here.  Do  you  care  to  go  and 
look  at  trente  et  quarante?" 

"No.  You  go." 

"I've  seen  it  before." 

"I'm  getting  a  headache,  Dick,  and  I  feel  all  flushed." 

"How  Parsons  can  stand  it  I  can't  think.  Half  an  hour  or 
so  in  this  atmosphere  is  enough  for  most  healthy  people. 
The  table  doesn't  lure  you?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  309 

"Not  a  bit.  It  repels  me  rather  badly.  I  should  like  to  leave 
the  money  behind." 

"Tainted,  eh?  The  hands  and  faces  round  the  table  don't 
look  particularly  fresh.  Let's  go  out  and  look  at  the  shops." 

"Yes,  fresh  air  and  sunlight." 

As  they  passed  down  the  steps  from  the  main  entrance  she 
turned  to  him  quickly. 

"I  don't  want  to  keep  that  money.  It  may  sound  super- 
stitious, but  I  couldn't  touch  it." 

"What  shall  we  do?  Throw  it  into  the  sea?" 

"I'll  give  it  away  to  something.  If  I  bought  anything  with 
it,  I  should  always  be  reminded  of  that  old  German  frau's 
hands." 

Take  a  tired  woman  shopping  and  she  will  revive  in  the 
most  marvellous  fashion,  especially  if  she  has  a  delicate  taste 
and  a  healthy  love  of  self-decoration.  Skelton  stopped  outside 
a  hat-shop  window,  where  the  "creations"  were  delectable 
enough  to  interest  even  a  man.  The  window  was  as  gay  as  a 
flower  shop,  all  roses  and  pinks,  soft  blues  and  greens  and 
greys. 

"There's  the  very  thing  for  you." 

He  pointed  out  a  little  silver-grey  straw  chapeau  trimmed 
with  a  spray  of  minute  pink  roses,  innocence,  virginity,  as 
expressed  by  the  milliner's  art.  The  face  that  lived  under  it 
should  have  a  flower-like  yet  mischievous  freshness. 

"We'll  have  that.  Come  along  in.  I  don't  know  how  my 
French  will  work!" 

He  need  not  have  worried.  A  great  lady  in  black  silk,  very 
debonair  and  gracious,  with  white,  smiling  teeth,  put  herself 
at  their  service. 


3io  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Bon  jour,  madame  et  monsieur.  What  may  I  have  the 
pleasure " 

"I  want  a  hat  for  madame — a  hat  in  the  window;  I  will 
show  you." 

He  pointed  out  the  grey  hat  with  the  pink  roses,  and  the 
great  lady  made  a  little  gesture  of  enthusiastic  and  sympa- 
thetic approval. 

"Monsieur  has  the  good  taste.  Madame  is  so  gentille  and 
ingenue" 

Constance  changed  hats  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror. 
One  glance  told  her  feminine  instinct  that  the  hat  was  per- 
fect, part  of  her  self.  Skelton's  eyes  said  the  same. 

"How  much?" 

"One  hundred  and  twentee  francs,  monsieur." 

Constance  looked  dashed. 

"I  don't  think  I  quite  like  it." 

"Well,  I  do!  Madame  will  take  the  hat.  We  are  driving — 
en  voiture,  comprenez  vous?  We  will  call  for  the  hat  presently, 
plus  tard? 

"Would  not  madame  like  to  look  at  others?" 

Madame  was  very  firm,  even  chilling.  They  paid  the  bill 
and  escaped. 

She  came  near  scolding  him  as  they  turned  into  the  gardens. 

"Dick,  nearly  five  pounds!  You  are  being  too  generous." 

"I  am  out  to  enjoy  myself." 

"But,  dear " 

"Do  you  care  for  lace?" 

She  became  very  serious,  so  serious  that  he  made  her  sit 
down  on  a  seat  under  a  tree  and  talk  it  over. 

"I  am  not  going  to  let  you  spend  your  money  on  me  in 
this  way." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  311 

He  was  equally  emphatic. 

"Connie,  just  listen  a  moment.  I'm  not  a  rich  man,  but  when 
I  give — I  give.  Understand,  dear,  that  a  man  enjoys  himself 
when  he  is  giving  to  the  one  particular  woman  in  the  world. 
That's  where  wives  who  are  greedy  fools  spoil  the  whole 
game.  But  I  know  this:  you  will  never  waste  our  money 
selfishly;  it's  not  in  you  to  do  it;  you  are  made  that  way. 
See?" 

She  looked  at  him  very  dearly. 

"I  think  I  understand.  It's  not  that  I  don't  like  taking  your 
money " 

"Our  money.  Listen.  There  is  a  certain  sort  of  beast  who 
tries  to  throttle  his  wife's  personality  by  tying  the  purse  strings 
round  her  throat.  I  can  understand  why  many  women  are  mad 
against  marriage.  The  man  who  tries  to  rule  by  keeping  hold 
of  the  cheque-book  is  a  cad  and  a  fool.  It's  a  partnership — 
understand?  You  will  have  a  certain  sum  yearly  absolutely 
your  own.  You  won't  have  to  ask  for  it,  or  get  pickings  out 
of  the  housekeeping  expenses!  And  when  I  save  money,  I 
shall  invest  a  certain  sum  yearly  in  your  name." 

"You  are  very  generous,  Dick." 

"Generous!  Nothing  of  the  kind!  It's  what  every  decent 
man  ought  to  do,  instead  of  dragging  all  the  sordid  money 
business  across  his  hearthrug.  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to 
let  the  dross  get  into  our  life  and  soil  it?" 

"I  am  so  glad  you  think  like  that." 

"Then  come  along  and  let  me  have  a  day's  dissipation." 

They  bought  lace,  stockings,  shoes,  and  spent  half  an  hour 
in  an  establishment  where  Constance  was  measured  for  a 
tailor-made  costume.  She  looked  at  him  half  pleadingly. 


3i2  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"All  right,  I  know  the  limit.  I  have  an  account  book  some- 
where in  the  back  of  my  head." 

Her  eyes  flashed  out  at  him. 

"How  I  like  you;  you  are  so  straight  and  reasonable." 

"By  George,  you  have  got  rid  of  the  Casino  air.  You  are  all 
sparkle." 

"I  am  rather— happy." 

"This  sort  of  thing  is  the  finest  tonic  going  for  a  woman." 

"You  don't  think  it  frivolous!" 

"I  think  a  woman  who  doesn't  care  what  she  wears  is  a 
perfect  beast." 

They  drifted  back  through  the  gardens  to  the  Cafe  de  Paris 
and  sat  down  at  one  of  the  little  outside  tables.  The  band  was 
playing,  and  life  seemed  in  a  mood  to  dance  to  the  music. 
The  cafe  was  crowded.  Waiters  bustled  about.  The  space 
in  front  of  the  Casino  was  full  of  movement  and  colour. 

"Th£  pour  deux,  garqon" 

The  waiter,  who  had  a  cynical  and  hard-eyed  way  with  him, 
cut  in  laconically: 

"Tea  for  two.  Buttered  buns?" 

"No,  cakes— a  plateful." 

They  laughed. 

"So  he  thought  we  looked  like  bun  people!" 

"Is  it  because  the  English  are  bears?" 

They  drank  their  tea  and  watched  the  people,  Constance 
drifting  into  a  silent  mood.  A  tranquil  and  pensive  radiance 
seemed  to  light  up  her  face,  the  radiance  of  inward  vision 
that  was  penetrating  to  the  core  of  things.  Skelton  lit  a  ciga- 
rette, watched  her,  and  felt  happy. 

"Deep  thoughts?" 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  quick  smile. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  313 

"Yes,  a  passing  of  pictures." 

"May  I  see  them?" 

"Yes." 

She  glanced  towards  the  Casino  entrance,  where  people 
were  streaming  up  and  down. 

"To  have  seen  this  once,  or  even  twice " 

"Is  enough?" 

"Perhaps.  It  has  made  me  look  back  at  England  a  little 
longingly  for  the  first  time  since  we  left  it." 

"What  do  you  see?" 

"A  green  country,  fresh  and  cool,  rather  grey  at  times,  but 
with  pearl-grey  mysterious  distances.  Dick,  isn't  it  a  land  to 
live  in,  to  work  in?  All  this  counts  for  so  little." 

"It's  for  people  who  want  to  run  away  from  themselves. 
But  work!  Do  you  know  what  Bernard  Shaw  says  about 
work?  That  nothing  can  make  a  man  more  selfish!  And 
you  are  talking  of  work — already!" 

"I  have  never  read  anything  of  Bernard  Shaw's." 

"Begin,  but  don't  swallow  everything.  He's  just  a  keen  and 
clean  north  wind  after  a  sappy  south-wester.  But  what  about 
work?" 

"Do  you  think  that  I  don't  understand  you  a  little." 

He  looked  at  her  intently. 

"Some  of  us  are  devils  if  we  can't  get  rid  of  creative  energy. 
It  is  food  and  drink;  we  get  savage  without  it." 

"I  can  understand.  And  I  am  so  glad.  We  shall  have  a  home 
somewhere." 

"My  dear,  are  you  so  delightfully  old-fashioned  as  all  that! 
Victorian  dullness!" 

She  turned  eyes  that  glimmered. 

"We  are  the  home — you  and  I.  It's  not  furniture  or  bricks. 


3i4  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Dull  people  make  a  dull  house.  And  we  shall  do  everything 
together,  shan't  we?" 

"Everything.  You  shall  fair-copy  some  of  my  plans  for  me." 

"May  I?" 

"Of  course.  You'll  find  me  pushing  my  correspondence  into 
your  lap!  And  when  I'm  tied  up  in  an  infernal  tangle  over 
something  you'll  sing." 

She  gave  a  queer  and  almost  noiseless  laugh. 

"Yes,  I  shall  sing.  And  I  think  I  shall  know  when  not  to 
get  in  your  way,  dear." 

"Now,  what  nonsense!" 

"It's  not  nonsense,  Dick." 

He  sat  silent  a  moment,  as  though  deeply  touched  and  a 
little  astonished. 

"How  is  it  you  are  such  a  genius?" 

"Well,  you  know,  Dick,  I  am  rather  fond  of  you.  You  arc 
just  my  life — all  of  it." 

"Confound  all  these  people!  I  wish  they  were  under  the 
sea!  I  want  to " 


Chapter  Thirty-seven 


JL  HERE  was  one  blessing  attached  to  the  life  at  the  Villa 
Proserpine:  they  were  spared  the  enthusiastic  and  travelled 
egoists  who  persist  in  telling  people  where  they  can  go  and 
what  they  can  see.  These  busybodies  refuse  to  leave  one  any 
sense  of  adventurous  mystery,  but  appropriate  Rome  itself, 
ard  shed  the  blight  of  their  self-conceit  upon  all  that  is  strange 
and  alluring.  Skelton  and  his  wife  had  the  delight  of  discover- 
ing things  for  themselves,  of  seeing  them  fresh  with  their  own 
eyes.  They  discovered  La  Mortola,  the  cliff  gardens  at  Monaco, 
the  old  town  at  Ventimiglia,  rock-set  Eze.  No  other  people's 
adjectives  spoilt  the  intimate,  personal  charm  of  their  pil- 
grimages. 

These  two  discovered  the  seat  by  the  outjutting  parapet  at 
the  end  of  the  cliff  gardens  at  Monaco,  where  they  were  poised 
between  sea  and  sky,  and  could  look  down  upon  the  cliff 
tinted  with  mauve  stocks  and  glaucous-leaved  aloes  sending 
out  tongues  of  fire,  and  upon  the  backs  of  wheeling  gulls, 
and  upon  the  sea  that  lapped  at  the  rocks  with  lips  of  foam. 
A  cypress  grew  beside  the  seat;  trees,  shrubs,  and  masses  of 


316  THE  WHITE  GATE 

geranium  shut  away  Monaco  as  though  it  were  not  there.  They 
could  feel  themselves  on  some  Greek  island,  back  in  Homeric 
days,  with  the  purple  iEgean  waiting  for  the  pale  sails  of 
Agamemnon's  ships. 

La  Mortola  would  have  pleased  them  better  if  it  had  been 
less  the  proper  popular  thing  to  see,  nor  could  they  under- 
stand why  hundreds  of  nonentities  should  be  made  to  waste 
time,  ink  and  paper  by  writing  their  names  down  in  a  book. 
The  pergola  with  its  masses  of  primulas  below,  the  banks  of 
anemones,  the  pool  of  violets  on  the  lower  ground  by  the  sea 
— these  were  unforgettable.  As  for  Eze,  that  earthquake-shat- 
tered town,  poised  like  a  tower  in  a  mediaeval  picture  wedged 
in  among  spires  of  rock,  reminiscent  of  dragons  and  sorcery, 
men  in  golden  armour  riding  up  steps,  winding  roads,  and 
strange,  elf -fair  women,  it  lured  them  thrice  along  the  Corniche 
Road  after  an  anxious  and  stertorous  engine  had  butted  them 
up  hill  all  the  way  from  Monte  Carlo  to  La  Turbie.  Constance 
sketched  the  grey  walls  and  gateway  of  Eze,  its  narrow  streets 
and  baffling  corners.  Never  was  there  a  more  captivating  jum- 
ble of  ruinous  delight.  The  demure,  sly  young  matron  in  black 
who  waits,  crocheting  diligently,  and  smiles  at  visitors,  luring 
them  into  a  personally  conducted  tour  of  the  castle  rock  and 
platform,  only  to  accept  a  franc  with  an  air  of  charming 
astonishment,  became  quite  a  friend  of  theirs.  Cap  Martin  with 
its  tangle  of  Aleppo  pines  and  fringe  of  fretted  and  chaotic 
rocks  was  a  favourite  lunching  ground,  with  Bordighera  flash- 
ing white  across  a  sapphire  sea.  They  climbed  on  mules  to  St. 
Agnes,  whence  the  terraced  hills  below  look  like  a  series  of 
huge  stairways.  Sometimes  they  wandered  up  above  Grimaldi, 
sat  under  the  olives,  and  talked  and  dreamed.  The  whole  land 


THE  WHITE  GATE  317 

was  theirs,  to  be  discovered,  enjoyed,  and  painted  into  vivid, 
personal  memories. 

But  the  Villa  Proserpine  expected  its  owners,  and  Skelton 
booked  rooms  on  the  second  floor  of  the  Hotel  Magnifique. 
To  Constance,  the  parting  from  this  little  white-walled  house 
brought  mixed  emotions  of  sadness,  gratitude,  and  regret.  It 
had  held  some  of  the  richest  moments  of  her  life,  many  hours 
of  suffering  and  dread.  She  would  never  forget  the  terrace 
and  the  green  walk  under  the  oranges  and  lemons,  the  corner 
where  the  white  jasmine  grew,  the  stone  seat  half  covered 
with  geranium  and  heliotrope.  Nor  was  fat  Anna  to  be  parted 
from  without  emotions.  She  stood  for  that  kindness  somehow 
inherent  in  human  nature,  a  kindness  that  transcends  the  civil 
expectation  of  "tips." 

The  Hotel  Magnifique  was  a  typical  Riviera  hotel.  It  had  its 
garden  with  palms  and  lawns  of  autumn-sown  grass,  its  beds 
of  cinerarias  and  wallflowers,  its  eucalyptus  and  mimosa  trees. 
A  punctilious  smartness  characterised  all  that  pertained  to  it, 
from  the  gorgeous  station  'bus  to  the  boy  in  buttons  who 
operated  the  lift.  The  Hotel  Magnifique  was  almost  exclu- 
sively English.  The  terms  were  exorbitant.  It  was  a  constant 
complaint  that  the  catering  was  on  the  meagre  side  in  spite 
of  the  atmosphere  of  smartness,  and  a  critical  person  might 
have  been  unable  to  discover  what  the  Hotel  Magnifique  gave 
people  for  the  high  prices  that  it  charged.  The  hotel  had  be- 
come a  habit.  People  went  there  because  so  many  other  people 
seemed  to  go  there.  The  visitors'  list  published  in  the  local 
paper  could  always  show  a  lord  or  a  baronet  or  two,  and  the 
names  had,  on  the  whole,  an  aristocratic  resonance.  As  Thack- 
eray would  have  put  it,  middle-class  people  must  expect  to 


3i8  THE  WHITE  GATE 

pay  extra  for  being  put  in  the  same  list  as  Lord  Soand-So, 
Sir  Somebody  Else  and  General  Gadzooks. 

But  the  Hotel  Magnifique  was  deplorably  dull,  with  an 
expensive  English  dullness.  The  large  majority  of  the  visitors 
were  old  ladies,  and  a  number  of  those  neutral-tinted,  unat- 
tached women  who  drift  about  the  world,  looking  bored  and 
lonely.  Nobody  appeared  to  desire  to  know  anybody  else.  If 
you  walked  into  the  lounge  when  it  was  full,  you  might  have 
imagined  that  there  had  been  some  universal,  devastating  row, 
and  that  the  whole  hotel  was  standing  upon  a  morose  and 
speechless  dignity.  Work-bags  were  very  much  in  evidence. 
Nearly  the  whole  hotel  turned  out  to  church  on  Sunday.  At 
night  bridge  was  played  with  gloomy  seriousness,  and  many 
of  the  older  women  played  patience.  If  any  youthful  spirit 
laughed  during  a  meal,  a  cold  ripple  of  surprise  seemed  to 
spread  through  the  elaborately  decorated  room. 

The  Skeltons  plunged  straight  from  the  intimate  personal 
atmosphere  of  the  Villa  Proserpine  into  the  dense  and  stupid 
reserve  of  the  British  caravanserie.  It  was  like  the  old  Exeter 
Hall  after  a  Grieg  concert.  They  were  struck  by  the  unimagi- 
nable dullness  of  the  place,  and  by  its  air  of  overfed  self- 
satisfaction. 

The  change  was  very  oppressive,  especially  to  Constance.  She 
suddenly  became  conscious  of  a  new  sense  of  publicity  and  of 
isolation.  People  stared  at  her,  but  did  not  speak.  She  seemed 
to  meet  cold,  critical  and  unsociable  faces  everywhere. 

The  impression  was  forced  upon  her  that  these  people  de- 
tected in  her  a  taint  of  inferiority,  some  smirch,  of  which  per- 
haps she  was  only  too  conscious.  The  Villa  Proserpine  had 
sent  the  past  to  sleep;  the  Hotel  Magnifique  brought  it  to  life 
again.  She  spoke  of  the  impression  to  Skelton. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  319 

| 

He  was  amused. 

"Most  hotels  are  like  this,  Connie.  The  people  are  only 
abominably  dull  and  self-satisfied,  and  they  eat  too  much." 

"I  feel  that  they  look  at  me  as  though  I  ought  not  to  be 
here." 

"No  one  ought  to  be  here!  That's  the  particular  attitude! 
I  have  reserved  our  room  for  only  a  week.  We'll  get  out  of 
this  respectable  refrigerator  into  something  sunnier." 

Yet  this  same  sense  of  isolation  brought  them  even  closer 
to  each  other,  and  quickened  that  interplay  of  sympathy  and 
understanding  that  alone  makes  marriage  sacred.  Their  eyes 
saw  the  humour  of  things,  and  flashed  with  simultaneous 
vibrations  of  laughter.  A  word,  a  look,  and  their  spirits  were 
off  in  company,  skimming  the  lake  of  life,  or  plunging  mo- 
mentarily beneath  the  surface.  Constance's  fine  sensitiveness 
made  her  wonderfully  swift  in  seizing  upon  all  that  was  pro- 
vocative and  comical.  No  explanations  were  needed  between 
them.  The  same  flash  lit  both  brains. 

The  Hotel  Magnifique  abounded  in  unconscious  humour 
for  those  who  had  the  eyes  to  see  and  the  ears  to  hear.  The 
place  was  delicious,  Meredithian,  worthy  of  a  play  by  Shaw. 
Skelton  and  Constance  had  only  to  sit  still  and  listen,  watch 
and  exchange  glances,  remain  in  a  corner  or  behind  a  book, 
while  the  "Magnificents"  performed.  Skelton  would  repeat 
conversations  he  had  heard.  They  invented  nicknames  for 
people,  and  grotesque,  imaginary  titles. 

A  very  commonplace,  middle-aged  couple  sat  at  the  next 
table  to  them  in  the  salle  &  manger.  The  man  might  have 
been  anything;  he  was  just  red,  and  well-fleshed  and  rather 
voiceless,  with  a  drooping  yellow-brown  moustache  that  needed 
a  great  deal  of  wiping.  He  did  not  seem  interested  in  anything 


32o  THE  WHITE  GATE 

except  the  food,  and  his  dress  waistcoat  was  a  bad  fit.  The 
wife  reminded  Skejton  of  a  superior  turkey.  She  gobbled  at 
intervals  in  an  opinionated  voice,  and  described  her  personal 
adventures  with  impressive  minuteness,  as  though  taking  it 
for  granted  that  the  whole  room  would  be  interested.  Her 
taste  in  dress  was  shocking;  and  if  she  had  dispensed  with  a 
little  of  her  propriety,  and  had  powdered  her  face  instead, 
even  the  angels  might  have  forgiven  her. 

"I  feel  quite  sorry  for  those  people,  Dick.  It  must  be  dull 
to  be  so  commonplace.  I  haven't  seen  them  speak  to  anyone. 
The  man  looks  at  me  sometimes  as  though  he  were  shy  but 
would  like  to  be  friendly.  Don't  you  think  we  might  be 
human." 

"Try  it." 

She  did  so,  and  was  badly  snubbed,  much  to  her  own 
astonishment.  A  little  later  she  happened  to  hear  the  wife 
making  inquiries  in  the  bureau,  turning  the  English  under- 
manageress  into  a  sort  of  confidential  Who's  Who. 

"Can  you  tell  me  who  the  Hendersons  are  who  have  just 
arrived?  Ah,  not  the  Hampshire  Hendersons?  Thank  you. 
In  a  hotel  one  has  to  know  who  people  are  before  one  accepts 
advances.  Yes,  exactly.  And  the  couple  who  sit  at  the  table 
next  to  us — Skelton  I  believe  the  name  is?" 

The  lady  manageress  knew  nothing  about  the  Skeltons.  She 
was  bland  and  non-committal,  having  learnt  by  experience  to 
be  astonished  at  nothing.  People  came  and  asked  her  the  most 
extraordinary  questions.  She  answered  them  discreetly,  and 
thought  her  own  thoughts. 

Constance  happened  to  know  the  number  of  "The  Turkey's" 
room.  She  looked  up  the  name  on  the  board  in  the  hall.  It  was 
Bunting. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  321 

She  found  Skelton  in  the  garden  under  the  shade  of  a  palm, 
and  reading  "Tartarin  of  Tarascon." 

"Do  you  know  the  Buntings?" 

"Of  rabbit-skin  fame?" 

"The  people  at  the  next  table." 

"Have  you  been  making  advances?" 

"Yes;  and  I've  been  snubbed.  And  what  do  you  think  I 
heard  afterwards?" 

She  described  the  bureau  incident. 

"They  are  exclusive,  Dick,  ex-clu-sive,  and  I  thought  them 
so  dull  and  commonplace!  Isn't  it  delicious?" 

"Commonplace  people  are  always  exclusive.  You  see,  there 
are  so  many  of  them  that  they  try  to  disown  each  other." 

"But  what  have  they  got  to  be  exclusive  about?" 

"Ah,  there  you  have  me!  Life  is  full  of  marvels.  They 
probably  have  a  lot  of  money." 

"But  isn't  it  absurd?" 

"My  pearl  of  great  price,  don't  you  see  that  these  people 
might  have  bored  us  to  death  if  they  had  consented  to  take 
to  us,  whereas  we  get  infinitely  more  amusement  out  of 
their  exclusiveness  ?  Don't  you  see  the  humour  of  being  ex- 
cluded by  people  called  Bunting?  I  think  I  must  alarm  the 
lady  by  acting  the  bounder,  and  then  pretending  to  make 
advances!" 

"I  don't  think  you  would  enjoy  it,  dear." 

"No,  perhaps  not.  Here's  the  rhyme: 

"Baby,  baby  Bunting, 
Father's  gone  'tuft-hunting,' 
To  buy  a  little  snobber-skin 
To  wrap  the  exclusive  Bunting  in." 

"Dick,  you're  dreadful.  Let's  go  for  a  walk  by  the  sea." 


322  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Not  far  from  the  Hotel  Bristol  they  met  the  very  last  person 
Skelton  expected  to  meet,  and  yet  when  the  coincidence  was 
analysed  it  became  apparent  that  Doyle  was  one  of  the  most 
likely  people  to  be  found  strolling  about  Cannes  or  Monte 
Carlo  or  Mentone  at  such  a  time  of  the  year.  He  was  idling 
briskly  along,  for  Doyle  always  did  things  swiftly,  even  when 
he  was  supposed  to  be  taking  life  at  a  crawl.  A  thin,  round- 
shouldered  man,  alert  and  enigmatical,  dressed  in  a  grey 
morning-suit  and  green  Homburg  hat,  with  brown  spats  and 
wash-leather  gloves,  and  carrying  a  light  cane,  he  looked  al- 
most the  elderly  "Johnny." 

He  recognised  Skelton  instantly,  though  he  had  met  him 
only  once  in  his  life. 

"My  dear  Skelton!  I  knew  you  were  down  here,  and  I  was 
going  to  call.  Your  wife?" 

He  bowed  over  her  hand  with  his  foreign  air,  holding  his 
hat  in  his  other  hand,  and  smiling  with  his  mouth  and  one 
eye.  The  eye  behind  the  eye-glass  always  appeared  blankly 
and  blindly  preoccupied,  whereas  it  was  acting  as  working 
partner,  seeing  to  business  while  its  fellow  undertook  the 
social  side  of  things. 

"May  I  join  you  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour?  I  have  to  lunch 
with  an  old  friend  at  Cap  Martin.  We  might  stroll  that  way. 
Good.  Mrs.  Skelton,  I  hear  you  came  here  for  your  health. 
There  no  longer  seems  any  necessity!" 

He  was  very  debonair  with  Constance,  talking  as  though 
he  and  her  husband  were  comrades-in-arms,  and  managing  to 
flatter  her  pride  in  Skelton  without  being  obvious.  Doyle 
could  always  count  on  his  own  imperturbability.  He  trod 
calmly  on  the  facts  that  he  had  tried  to  drive  a  very  problem- 


THE  WHITE  GATE  323 

atical  bargain  with  Cuthbertson  and  her  husband,  and  had 
caused  both  of  them  a  good  deal  of  worry. 

"Your  husband  is  a  very  wonderful  man,  Mrs.  Skelton.  We 
shall  have  to  beg  you  to  bring  him  home  before  long.  It  is  a 
fine  thing  to  be  indispensable!  By  the  way,  Skelton,  I'll  have 
this  week's  Automobile  posted  to  you.  You  may  find  some- 
thing of  interest  in  it.  We  are  getting  along  very  passably." 

"So  Cuthbertson  says." 

"A  gentleman  with  a  very  stiff  back,  my  dear  Skelton.  No 
nonsense!  We  understand  all  that." 

He  puzzled  Constance  very  effectually.  She  wanted  to  like 
him,  but  couldn't  quite  manage  it,  though  she  knew  he  was 
going  to  be  a  valuable  partisan.  The  eye-glass  and  the  steady 
expressionless  eye  behind  it  worried  her,  especially  when  the 
other  eye  seemed  so  much  alive.  She  noticed  that  Doyle 
treated  her  husband  with  a  directness  that  was  almost  brusque, 
as  though  he  knew  instinctively  that  the  velvet-glove  business 
was  useless. 

They  parted  company  close  to  the  old  Roman  arch,  Doyle 
urbane  and  a  little  sly,  Skelton  with  an  expression  of  grim 
amusement. 

"I  can't  quite  make  that  man  out,  Dick.  I  don't  think  I 
would  trust  him." 

"No  one  does,  madam,  except  when  he  is  tied  up  as  tightly 
as  our  lawyers  can  manage  it.  Doyle  is  a  genius  in  his  way, 
and  he  wants  to  make  use  of  me." 

"How  could  you  tell  that?  I  thought " 

"That  he  was  rather  abrupt?  All  that  was  a  challenge.  It 
said,  'Let's  have  no  nonsense  between  us.'  He  has  had  his 
tussle  with  Cuthbertson.  There  are  some  men  you  have  to 
knock  down  before  you  can  shake  hands  with  them.  Doyle 


324  THE  WHITE  GATE 

is  that  sort.  You  know,  you  can  mesmerise  people  into  making 
them  play  fair." 

In  glancing  up  at  him  she  had  an  intuitive  glimpse  of  an 
almost  ferocious  sense  of  honour  that  could  be  implacable 
and  devilish  towards  the  meaner  kinds  of  roguery. 

"Yes,  I  believe  you  could." 

Now  Doyle  had  friends  staying  at  the  same  hotel  at  Monte 
Carlo,  the  Rowland  Trevors,  who  had  a  big  place  between 
Farnham  and  Reading.  The  Trevors  were  moving  on  to 
Mentone,  and  Doyle,  who  had  been  useful  to  Rowland  Trevor, 
Esq.,  always  made  use  of  people  upon  whom  he  had  laid  any 
obligation. 

He  spoke  to  Trevor  in  the  smoking-room  that  same  evening. 

"Are  you  going  to  put  up  at  'The  Magnifique'  at  Mentone?" 

"I  believe  my  wife  has  selected  that  particular  place." 

"There  is  a  man  I  know  staying  there,  a  fellow  named 
Skelton — a  devilish  clever  engineer.  I  am  helping  to  run  an 
invention  of  his;  it's  going  to  be  a  big  thing.  I  believe  he's 
got  even  bigger  things  in  him,  and  I  want  to  keep  in  touch 
with  a  brain  like  that.  One  must  in  these  days.  It's  specialising 
in  brains.  You  might  be  urbane  to  him." 

Rowland  Trevor,  being  a  director  of  companies,  under- 
stood. 

"Of  course,  my  dear  Doyle,  of  course." 


Chapter  Thirty-eight 


IT  WAS  the  day  of  the  Battle  of  Flowers,  and  Skelton  had 
been  making  secret  preparations  that  had  entailed  serious 
interviews  with  a  local  car  proprietor  and  a  local  florist.  He 
had  made  it  clear  to  a  little,  round,  fat,  and  enthusiastic  floral 
artiste  that  he  had  great  ambitions,  and  that  nothing  but  a 
triumph  would  please  him.  Pink  and  white  were  to  be  the 
colours,  but  he  did  not  dogmatise  as  to  the  flowers. 

At  breakfast  that  morning  he  said  casually,  "We  may  as 
well  go  down  and  see  the  fun  this  afternoon.  It  looks  like 
being  a  splendid  day.  And,  by  the  way,  Connie,  wear  that 
white  dress  and  that  pink  jacket — will  you?  Also  the  white 
hat.  It's  a  whim  of  mine." 

"As  my  lord  pleases!" 

They  were  sitting  in  the  hotel  garden  before  lunch,  when 
the  Rowland  Trevors  arrived  from  Monte  Carlo.  They  had 
the  hotel  'bus  to  themselves,  and  their  luggage  was  like  the 
baggage  of  a  regiment — travelling  trunks,  leather  dressing- 
bags  and  hat-boxes,  cameras,  golf  clubs,  coats,  bundles  of  sticks 
and  umbrellas,  tennis  rackets.  The  Trevors  were  large  people, 
nearly  as  large  and  impressive  as  their  luggage. 

325 


326  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Certain  people  impress  themselves  at  once  upon  their  sur- 
roundings, arriving  with  an  easy  assumption  of  a  divine  right 
to  be  considered  superior  to  their  neighbours.  The  Rowland 
Trevors  were  superior  people.  They  did  not  talk  loudly,  but 
their  voices  were  peculiarly  penetrating,  voices  accustomed  to 
the  giving  of  orders  and  to  conversing  in  large  rooms  and  in 
the  midst  of  publicity.  Their  complacency  was  so  incom- 
parable that  it  enabled  them  at  times  to  be  superfinely  rude. 
They  had  travelled  a  good  deal,  and  were  thoroughly  cultured 
in  an  eclectic  and  uncreative  way,  priding  themselves  upon 
their  fastidious  taste  and  upon  their  knowledge  of  books,  pic- 
tures and  music.  The  father  had  published  books  upon  the 
Elizabethan  drama  and  upon  violins. 

Rowland  Trevor  stood  six  feet  three  in  his  shoes,  held  him- 
self very  straight,  and  walked  with  a  slight  swing  of  the 
shoulders,  looking  down  on  the  world  with  an  air  of  superior 
and  amused  benignity.  His  wife  was  nearly  as  tall  as  he  was, 
thin,  restless,  authoritative,  with  glistening  and  protruding 
eyes,  rather  like  the  eyes  of  a  King  Charles  spaniel.  The  daugh- 
ters were  well-developed  and  imperious  young  women,  with 
full  eyes  and  noses  that  were  rather  too  broad  and  scornful 
about  the  nostrils.  The  son  was  in  the  Diplomatic  Service, 
and  was  going  bald  on  the  crown.  He  looked  infallible — per- 
haps because  he  felt  it. 

The  Skeltons  watched  the  disembarkation. 

"I  seem  to  have  seen  those  people  before." 

"Where?" 

He  was  frowning  slightly. 

"At  home — I  can't  remember.  They  are  large  enough  to 
be  recollected." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  327 

"Rather  overpowering.  Do  some  voices  rouse  all  your  an- 
tagonism?" 

"The  very  devil!  Especially  the  voices  that  talk  from  the 
top  of  a  mountain.  Hallo!  there  goes  the  luncheon  gong." 

They  had  arrived  at  the  "fruit"  when  the  Rowland  Trevors 
walked  in  in  Indian  file  and  took  the  table  that  had  been 
reserved  for  them  by  one  of  the  windows.  The  maitre  d' hotel 
was  very  attentive,  for  the  Trevors  had  never  to  beckon  to 
subordinates.  They  sat  down,  looked  about  them,  and  began 
to  talk  as  though  they  had  been  in  the  hotel  three  months. 
"Did  you  see  the  creation  that  has  just  arrived  outside?" 

"A  pink  and  white  bird's  nest  on  wheels.  I  suppose  some 
tough  old  chicken  is  going  out  as  a  spring  pullet." 

The  younger  Trevor  was  unfolding  his  serviette  and  glanc- 
ing round  the  room  to  see  if  there  were  any  decent-looking 
women.  His  eyes  reached  Constance  and  paused  momentarily 
with  a  stare  of  serene  approval. 

Skelton  was  looking  at  his  watch. 

"I  think  you  might  go  and  dress,  Connie.  Do  yourself 
justice." 

The  diplomatist  watched  her  rise  and  walk  out  of  the  room. 
He  insisted  upon  a  woman  possessing  poise  and  that  grace- 
fulness that  hides  all  self-consciousness.  He  decided  that  the 
little  girl  with  the  dark  eyes  and  the  intent  face  was  quite 
the  most  presentable  female  present. 

Skelton  went  out  to  look  at  the  pink  and  white  bird's  nest 
on  wheels,  ahd  the  prospect  of  "processing"  in  it  rather  fright- 
ened him  for  the  moment.  The  artiste  had  come  up  early  to 
see  if  monsieur  approved  of  the  creation,  and  whether  he 
desired  any  additions.  It  was  really  a  very  charming  affair, 
made  up  of  white  wool,  pink  and  white  ribbons,  pink  and 


328  THE  WHITE  GATE 

white  carnations,  almond  blossom,  white  stocks  and  pink 
roses.  A  well-groomed  little  black  mare  was  harnessed  between 
the  shafts,  and  the  driver  was  a  good-looking  young  Italian. 

"Monsieur  will  observe " 

"Yes;  but  how  the  devil  does  one  get  into  the  thing?" 

This  necessitated  some  elucidation.  The  edge  of  the  nest 
was  made  to  open  on  one  side. 

"I  see.  Charming,  tres  charmant,  tres  gentille" 

"Monsieur  is  agree-able?" 

"Very  agreeable — in  the  best  of  tempers." 

"And  the  flowers  for  the  battle?  I  have  some." 

"Put  them  in — dans  la  voiture.  We  must  have  ammunition 
— munitions  de  guerre,  whatever  you  call  it." 

Constance  came  out  and  found  her  husband  examining  the 
accommodation  inside  the  "nest." 

"Hallo!  Here's  our  conveyance." 

"Ours,  Dick?" 

"I  ordered  a  creation  suitable  to  the  lady  who  is  going  to 
take  the  first  prize.  If  you  don't  mind  a  lean  old  goshawk 
occupying  the  nest  with  you,  I'll  go  too  and  try  not  to  look 
a  fool." 

She  climbed  in,  flushed,  and  not  a  little  touched  by  the  trick 
he  had  played  upon  her. 

"What  a  dear  you  were  to  think  of  this!  It's  a  perfect 
picture!" 

"You'll  be  pelted,  you  know,  but  I  have  laid  in  a  store  of 
ammunition.  It's  rather  like  going  round  with  a  circus!" 

There  were  interested  spectators  in  the  vestibule  and  on  the 
hotel  steps.  The  whole  Trevor  family  had  filed  out  into  the 
garden  and  taken  chairs  under  the  shade  of  a  group  of 


THE  WHITE  GATE  329 

orange  trees.  They  looked  amused,  but  there  was  too  much 
lift  of  the  nostril  about  the  daughters'  amusement. 

"Honeymooners,  I  judge!  Care  to  go  down  and  see  the 
show?" 

"No;  they  are  awfully  fusty  things  as  a  rule.  Nice  is  the  only 
place  worth  troubling  about." 

"Besides,  the  Cottle  boys  are  coming  up  to  tea." 

"They  are  going  through  the  flower  business  first,  though, 
in  a  turn-out  from  'The  Paradise.'  Young  Emery  told  me." 

"The  honeymooners  are  off.  Someone  ought  to  have  pre- 
sented them  with  a  nest-egg!" 

"My  dear  Christopher!" 

"Well,  why  not?  The  girl's  rather  pretty." 

"In  the — millinery — style." 

"Now,  how  everybody  does  hate  a  pretty  woman!  You 
need  not  be  so  hard  on  the  others,  Gwen;  you  are  not  par- 
ticularly hideous." 

"I  was  only  stating  an  impression." 

The  red-roofed,  white-walled  town,  the  grey  mountains, 
and  the  southern  sea  were  all  in  brilliant  sunlight.  The  en- 
closures between  the  gardens  and  the  sea  were  crowded,  and 
nearly  every  seat  in  the  tribunes  was  taken.  The  flags  and 
streamers  floated  lazily  overhead,  betraying  how  light  the 
wind  was,  and  making  the  crowd  turn  frequent  eyes  towards 
pine-clad  Cap  Martin  for  a  first  glimpse  of  Legagneux's  mono- 
plane sailing  like  a  great  black  bird  out  of  the  western  sky. 
The  band  of  the  Alpine  regiment  marched  in  with  a  clangour 
of  brass,  and  the  sturdy  little  Chasseurs  in  the  blue  uniforms, 
caps  and  puttees  took  up  their  places  along  the  roadway. 

Mounted  gendarmes  and  men  carrying  banners  marched 
into  the  enclosure.  The  band  played;  people  craned  their  heads. 


330  THE  WHITE  GATE 

The  procession  of  decorated  cars,  carriages  and  coaches  filed 
in  and  the  fun  began,  a  little  tentative  at  first,  a  little  hy- 
percritical, unwilling  to  waste  ammunition  upon  anything 
that  was  not  spontaneously  provocative.  A  note  of  riot,  of 
colour  music,  was  needed  to  set  the  posies  flying  with  the 
abandonment  of  impulse. 

Constance's  carriage  came  fifth  in  the  line,  and  the  "crea- 
tion" in  pink  and  white  was  fated  to  rouse  the  first  murmur 
of  enthusiasm  and  the  first  storm  of  flowers. 

"I  say,  that's  charming!" 

"And  a  confoundedly  pretty  girl  in  it,  too." 

"She's  French." 

"Here's  something  worth  throwing  at." 

Skelton  had  bought  Constance  one  of  the  little  round  straw 
fans,  and  she  needed  it  for  self-defence.  The  bunches  of 
flowers  came  pelting  in — violets,  stocks,  wallflowers,  mimosa, 
a  flattering  fusillade  that  poured  from  both  sides  of  the  road- 
way. Skelton,  keen  as  a  boy,  gave  back  shot  for  shot,  laughing 
when  he  scored  a  hit  or  was  hit  most  palpably  in  return.  If 
the  men  noticed  Constance,  Skelton  was  not  unnoticed  by  the 
women. 

"Quel  brave!" 

"That  man  with  the  brown  face  looks  rather  a  dear." 

"I  like  to  see  a  man  enjoying  himself,  and  not  looking 
like  a  self-conscious  codfish." 

Self-conscious  he  was  not,  being  in  high  fettle  and  full 
of  fight. 

"I  say,  hot  work,  this.  Throw,  old  woman,  throw  like  any- 
thing. I'm  being  buried  in  flowers.  Talk  about  Roman  tri- 
umphs! You  see  what  it  means,  having  a  fascinating  wife." 

She  was  flushed,  radiant,  a  little  breathless. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  331 

"Isn't  it?  Oh,  I  say,  that  one  stung!" 

"Badly?  Where  did  it  come  from?  Let  me  get  one  back." 

"No.  Take  that!  Dick,  look  out!  Oh,  bother.  All  right, 
wait  till  we  come  round  again." 

He  glanced  at  her  with  eyes  that  laughed. 

"You  look  splendid;  and  you're  getting  an  ovation.  Watch 
this  coach-load  here;  they  are  preparing  a  broadside.  Lay  on, 
Macduff!" 

A  coach-load  of  pierrots  and  pierrettes  passed  them,  firing 
with  every  gun.  It  was  laughing,  pelting,  bright-eyed  fooling, 
with  age  growing  young  again  and  youth  losing  much  of  its 
self -consciousness.  Skelton  and  Constance  had  no  time  to  study 
the  faces  in  the  ship  of  flowers  that  pelted  colour  down  upon 
them.  It  was  a  mere  moving  blur,  a  tossing  of  flowers,  a 
shooting  out  of  hands;  they  were  overmatched  and  smothered 
for  the  moment  by  the  superior  weight  of  metal  from  above. 

The  coach  carried  a  party  from  the  Hotel  Paradis,  and 
the  two  Cottle  boys  from  Roymer  belonged  to  the  party. 

"Emma!  My  hat!  Don't  you  see  who  it  is?" 

"What?" 

"That  chap  Skelton  and  Bertie's  litde  flapper." 

"Well,  I'm  jiggered!  Who'd  have  thought  of  us  pelting  'em 
with  flowers  down  here?  I  say,  what  a  wheeze!" 

"Hallo!  here  comes  the  little  bit  of  fluff  in  blue  again. 
She's  got  eyes.  Here,  pass  up  a  fresh  basket." 

To  and  fro  rolled  the  pink  and  white  carriage,  pelted  con- 
spicuously all  the  way.  Particular  people,  who  were  hard  to 
please,  held  their  fire  and  waited  for  Constance's  return.  One 
tall,  coal-bearded  Frenchman  in  the  tribunes  stood  holding 
a  bunch  of  violets,  letting  the  duller  folk  go  by,  and  reserving 
the  homage  of  his  attack  for  petite  madame  in  pink  and  white. 


332  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Each  time  she  passed  he  tossed  a  bunch  of  violets  at  Constance, 
and  a  glance  with  it,  exclaiming  gallantly,  "La  Reine,  La 
Reiner 

An  afternoon  of  sensations!  It  culminated  in  a  triumph  for 
the  "creation"  in  pink  and  white.  Constance  and  her  car  car- 
ried off  the  first  prize. 

The  young  Cottles  stripped  off  their  pierrot  costumes  and 
made  for  the  Hotel  Magnifique,  the  Rowland  Trevors,  and 
tea.  They  felt  themselves  to  be  very  "doggy,"  very  much  men 
of  the  world. 

"I  say,  I'm  going  to  follow  up  the  'Blue  Bird.'  Wonder  if 
she'll  be  at  the  Casino  ball?" 

"You  won't  know  her  behind  a  mask." 

"Don't  you  be  too  cocksure." 

They  found  the  Misses  Rowland  Trevor  in  the  garden, 
and  being  favoured  and  familiar  friends,  they  fell  at  once 
into  intimate  garrulity. 

"I  say,  awful  funny  coincidence " 

"Yes;  most  rummy  thing.  Ever  meet  a  chap  named 
Skelton?" 

"Engineer  Johnny;  lived  in  a  cottage  down  our  way." 

"Ran  off  with  a — what  do  you  call  it? — enfant  anonytne; 
mother  with  a  past,  you  know;  made  quite  a  stir  in  our  mud- 
patch.  You  must  have  heard.  The  girl  poisoned  her  mother 
— by  mistake,  so  she  said." 

Neither  of  the  Misses  Trevor  knew  anything  about  such 
people.  Their  country  place  was  within  ten  miles  of  Roymer, 
but  they  went  only  to  the  big  houses. 

"You  seem  rather  excited  about  it." 

"Well,  blessed  if  they  weren't  in  the  battle  of  flowers,  and 
we  pelted  'em.  And  their  ramshackle  took  first  prize." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  333 

"What's  the  name— Skelton?" 

"Yes.  They  were  in  a  pink  and  white  turn-out,  a  sort  of 
nest." 

The  Trevor  girls  exchanged  glances. 

"Why,  they  are  staying  here." 

"What,  at  the  Magnifique?" 

"Yes,  and  we  have  been  asked  to  know  them.  A  friend  of 
the  pater's." 

The  Cottles,  as  serious  men  of  the  world,  looked  scandalised. 

"But  you  can't.  The  chap's  an  awful  bounder.  And,  of 
course,  the  girl —  One  can't  waste  time  on  such  people." 


Chapter  Thirty-nine 


A  COPY  of  The  Automobile  arrived  for  Skelton  that  same 
evening,  and  Constance  seized  it  from  him,  tore  the  wrapper 
off,  and  looked  rapidly  through  the  pages. 

"They've  got  a  photo  of  you,  Dick,  and  there's  a  long 
article,  all  about  your  work." 

"I  wonder  where  they  got  the  photo  from?  Old  Cuthbert- 
son,  I  suppose." 

"It's  quite  a  good  one,  too.  It  makes  me  thrill  all  over,  see- 
ing you  there." 

She  took  the  paper  in  to  dinner  with  her,  and  glanced  at 
it  from  time  to  time,  quite  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  the  Trevor 
womenfolk  were  interested  in  her. 

"What  is  a  'prime  mover,'  Dick?" 

"Just  a  term  for  an  engine — a  thing  that  produces  power." 

"I  see." 

During  dinner  he  became  interested  in  the  Trevor  family, 
but  merely  in  the  part  of  a  dispassionate  observer.  They  were 
very  animated,  very  much  pleased  with  the  family  as  a  con- 
versational machine.  Charming  people,  so  cultured,  so  inter- 

334 


THE  WHITE  GATE  335 

ested  in  life,  so  sympathetic  towards  each  other!  The 
daughters  seemed  to  find  their  father  the  most  impressive 
and  delightful  of  men;  the  father  talked  as  though  he  could 
have  no  more  intelligent  listeners  than  his  wife  and  daughters. 
Skelton  watched  them  dispassionately  and  wondered.  Was  it 
art,  a  subtle  and  self-conscious  intellectualising  of  the  peacock's 
tail  ?  He  had  a  notion  that  publicity  counted. 

It  was  difficult  to  detach  oneself  from  the  aura  of  such  a 
family,  and  Constance  found  herself  lured  into  the  part  of 
listener.  The  Trevors  depressed  people  who  were  at  all  sen- 
sitively modest  and  self-critical.  They  overpowered  with  a 
heavy  perfume  of  culture,  and  they  had  the  knack  of  making 
other  minds  feel  empty.  They  had  travelled  here,  there,  and 
everywhere,  and  talked  about  Italy  and  Spain  as  though 
they  knew  every  picture,  church,  and  village.  They  appeared 
to  be  in  intimate  touch  with  the  art  and  music  of  the  day. 
Constance  struggled  against  a  smothering  sense  of  intellectual 
inferiority.  How  much  these  people  had  seen  and  experienced; 
how  rich  and  full  their  lives  had  been;  while  she —  Two  years 
at  a  very  middle-class  school,  a  smattering  here  and  there. 
She  was  sad,  most  absurdly  sad,  over  a  sudden  conviction  of 
her  own  ignorance,  telling  herself  that  she  was  a  raw  girl  who 
could  not  write  a  letter  in  decent  French,  who  knew  hardly 
a  word  of  Italian  or  German,  who  could  sing  and  play  and 
sketch  a  little.  The  Trevors  had  made  her  feel  that  she  knew 
nothing — absolutely  nothing. 

Drifting  into  the  reading-room  after  dinner,  she  sat  down 
alone  in  a  corner  to  look  through  a  back  number  of  a  lady's 
paper.  The  bloom  had  gone  from  the  day's  triumph,  and 
carried  the  skin  of  her  self-content  with  it.  She  felt  raw,  self- 


336  THE  WHITE  GATE 

conscious,  ignorant,  incomplete.  The  superior  people  had  ut- 
terly crushed  her  sense  of  proportion. 

Skelton  had  strolled  into  the  smoking-room  to  light  a  pipe 
and  glance  through  the  article  in  The  Automobile.  It  was  a 
fine  laudatory  puff  arranged  as  an  advertisement,  and  care- 
fully withholding  any  technical  details  that  might  be  pur- 
loined by  other  people.  The  "Skelton  heavy-oil  engine"  was 
going  to  revolutionise  the  transport  service  of  the  world. 
What  was  more,  the  Skelton  transmission  gear  was  a  mar- 
vellous advance  upon  any  previous  system.  The  manufac- 
turers were  able  to  state  that  a  model  would  soon  be  running 
a  railway  motor  coach  on  their  experimental  track,  and  that 
more  than  one  English  railway  company  was  intensely  inter- 
ested in  the  new  system. 

Skelton  was  thinking  of  possible  future  royalties,  when  a 
large  figure  loomed  over  him  and  uttered  his  name. 

"Mr.  Skelton,  I  believe?" 

"Yes." 

"We  have  a  mutual  friend  in  Howard  Doyle.  He  told  me 
you  were  staying  here." 

"Doyle  ?  We  have  met  once  or  twice." 

"My  name  is  Trevor — Rowland  Trevor." 

He  spoke  the  words  as  though  there  was  no  necessity  for 
him  to  explain  the  Trevors  to  anyone. 

"Extraordinary  man,  Doyle;  very  old  friend  of  mine." 

He  took  an  empty  chair  beside  Skelton,  thrust  out  his  long 
legs,  lit  a  cigar,  and  began  to  talk.  The  impression  that  Skel- 
ton had  carried  away  from  the  dinner-table  was  strengthened 
and  enlarged.  Trevor  was  always  for  striking  the  impressive 
note.  His  big  head  and  a  certain  suggestion  of  reserves  of 
profundity  made  one  think  of  a  Shakespearian  scholar.  Yet 


THE  WHITE  GATE  337 

there  was  a  jealous  watchfulness  about  the  eyes,  a  self-con- 
scious studying  of  the  effect  produced  upon  the  person  who 
listened. 

"Remarkable  the  complex  development  of  power  in  the  last 
twenty  years.  Take  the  gyroscope,  for  instance." 

He  began  to  dilate  on  the  properties  of  the  gyroscope. 
From  the  gyroscope  he  passed  on  to  aeroplanes,  talking  as 
though  he  were  the  engineer  and  Skelton  the  rich  amateur. 
Skelton  was  reminded  of  a  tale  told  of  Gladstone — how  at  a 
dinner  he  sat  between  a  brewer  and  the  owner  of  a  tannery, 
and  how  he  talked  to  the  brewer  about  brewing  and  to  the 
tanner  about  tanning.  Said  the  brewer  to  the  tanner  after- 
wards :  "He  seemed  to  know  all  about  your  business."  "Didn't 
know  what  he  was  talking  about,"  said  the  tanner;  "but  he 
seemed  to  know  all  about  brewing."  "Brewing!  Not  a  bit  of 
it;  he'd  got  all  his  knowledge  of  brewing  upside  down." 

"Doyle  tells  me  you  have  been  doing  a  remarkable  piece 
of  work.  New  internal  combustion  engine?" 

"Something  of  that  sort." 

"Now,  when  Herr  Otto  first  evolved — "  And  Skelton  had 
to  listen  to  a  popular  history  of  gas  and  petrol  engines;  but  as 
the  brewer  would  have  put  it,  much  of  the  information  was 
"upside  down." 

He  became  badly  bored  by  Rowland  Trevor's  impressive 
ubiquity,  and  shook  himself  free  by  pretending  he  had  a  letter 
to  write.  He  found  Constance  yawning  over  fashion-plates 
and  looking  tired. 

"Come  along;  bed's  the  place  for  weary  queens." 

"Look;  it's  all  I'm  good  for." 

He  gave  her  an  understanding  look. 


338  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Fudge!  Besides,  I'd  rather  my  wife  knew  how  to  dress 
than  work  out  logarithms." 

Skelton  opened  the  bedroom  shutters  wide,  and  they  leant 
over  the  iron  rail  for  a  while  and  looked  at  the  lights  and 
the  stars. 

"The  tall  man  introduced  himself  in  the  smoking-room. 
His  name's  Rowland  Trevor — a  friend  of  Doyle's.  He  bored 
me  badly." 

"What,  the  new  people?" 

"Yes.  I  suppose  they  want  to  know  us.  Probably  Doyle 
asked  them  to  be  polite." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  motionless,  leaning  against  him. 

"You  have  got  such  a  big  future." 

"Havel?" 

"And  I  feel  such  an  utter  fool,  Dick.  I  feel  I  shan't  be  able 
to  keep  up  with  you." 

He  held  her  close  and  said,  "Bosh!" 

"I'm  awfully  raw,  and " 

"Fresh,  and  all  alive,  and  young,  thank  God!  I  know  what 
it  is:  the  impressive  people  have  got  on  your  nerves." 

"Did  you  hear  them  talking  at  dinner?" 

"They  meant  us  to.  Look  here,  do  you  think  those  sort  of 
people  count  in  the  world?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Talkers  don't 
count,  except  in  the  rotten  political  job.  Go  for  such  people, 
stand  up  to  them,  don't  be  smothered.  They  are  much  less 
impressive  when  you  get  them  at  close  quarters." 

"They  would  make  me  feel  a  fool." 

"Nonsense!  Be  serenely  sure  of  yourself  in  such  company. 
There  is  much  less  real  stuff  in  them  than  you  imagine;  and, 
don't  forget,  they  always  dine  with  the  blinds  up.  If  one  were 
an  urchin,  one  could  just  look  in  and  grin." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  339 

Half  life  is  suggestion,  and  the  why  and  wherefore  of  her 
own  humility  became  clearer  to  Constance  after  her  husband's 
words.  From  what  he  had  said  it  seemed  to  her  certain  that 
the  Rowland  Trevors  would  become  acquaintances  of  theirs 
in  the  course  of  the  next  few  days,  and  she  made  up  her  mind 
that  they  should  not  set  her  down  as  a  mere  raw  girl. 

The  point  of  contact  was  nearer  than  she  imagined,  for  on 
walking  out  next  morning  to  the  big  thatched  shelter  in  the 
hotel  garden — a  shelter  that  resembled  the  half  of  a  huge 
beehive,  set  to  keep  off  the  north  wind — she  found  the  Row- 
land Trevor  women  in  possession.  Skelton  had  gone  down 
to  Cook's  to  book  seats  on  the  motor  to  Nice,  and  Constance 
had  taken  Richard  Jefferies'  "Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  County" 
for  an  hour's  read  in  the  garden.  The  shelter  had  its  back 
to  the  hotel,  and  it  was  impossible  to  see  who  was  inside  it  until 
one  had  rounded  the  thatched  wall. 

She  smothered  an  impulse  that  suggested  a  retreat,  and 
sat  down  in  one  of  the  garden  chairs.  Mrs.  Trevor  was  read- 
ing, the  elder  daughter  was  scribbling  colour  notes  in  her 
sketch-book,  the  younger  girl  writing  letters.  All  three  had 
stared  up  at  her  momentarily,  but  with  nothing  that  could 
be  construed  into  friendliness. 

Constance  opened  her  book  and  tried  to  read,  only  to  dis- 
cover that  she  was  utterly  unable  to  fix  her  attention.  The 
atmosphere  seemed  unsympathetic.  She  found  herself  glanc- 
ing at  the  profiles  of  the  three  women  and  thinking  what 
absurd  creatures  humans  were.  Why  should  she  feel  so  rest- 
less and  ill  at  ease  in  the  presence  of  these  three  mortals,  or 
suffer  their  personalities  to  trouble  hers? 

Mrs.  Trevor  closed  the  magazine,  keeping  the  page  marked 
with  her  forefinger. 


340  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Some  of  these  cross-correspondences  are  working  out  very 
remarkably.  There  is  an  article  here  giving  extracts  from  the 
scripts." 

The  daughters  looked  up.  The  younger  one  had  finished 
her  letter,  and  the  other's  sketch-book  was  not  of  superlative 
importance. 

"I  think  I  must  make  another  attempt  with  Hilda  Mont- 
gomery. I  can't  bring  myself  to  think  that  telepathy  explains 
everything." 

"Do  try  again,  mother;  you  got  out  some  extraordinary 
information.  Do  you  remember  about  the  Thomson's  Bible?" 

"Yes;  that  was  very  remarkable." 

The  conversation  ran  for  a  while  on  psychic  subjects,  and 
then  drifted  into  a  discussion  of  the  subtle  variations  of  the 
human  colour  sense.  Constance,  listening  while  she  pretended 
to  read,  was  urging  herself  to  cross  the  Rubicon  and  join  in. 
"Make  yourself  speak  to  these  people.  Don't  let  your  self-con- 
sciousness stifle  you."  The  voice  within  her  was  dictatorial, 
even  threatening. 

The  elder  Trevor  girl  was  speaking. 

"I  think  one's  sense  of  colour  varies  in  different  countries. 
Now,  down  here  I  seem  to  get  more  blue  and  grey." 

"Adaptation,  dear.  Looking  down  through  the  olives,  for 
instance,  from — what's  the  place?" 

"St.  Agnes?" 

"No,  no." 

"I  can't  remember." 

Constance  made  her  plunge. 

"Are  you  thinking  of  Castellar?  It's  like  looking  down 
through  grey  lace,  isn't  it?" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  341 

The  three  faces  were  turned  to  her  simultaneously.  It  was 
as  though  a  lay  figure  had  spoken. 

"Thank  you.  Castellan  I  believe  that  is  the  place." 

Mrs.  Trevor's  glimmering  and  protruding  eyes,  with  their 
expression  of  shocked  soulfulness,  stared  at  her  for  a  moment. 
The  conversation  seemed  to  disappear  like  a  puff  of  smoke 
blown  from  a  gun.  The  elder  girl  resumed  her  note-making, 
the  younger  began  another  letter.  The  atmosphere  settled  into 
utter  and  exclusive  silence. 

Constance  knew  that  she  had  been  badly  snubbed.  Her 
whole  pride  quivered  with  the  repulse.  She  turned  her  eyes 
to  her  book  and  made  herself  go  on  reading,  tracking  the 
sense  down  with  passionate  pertinacity.  And  yet  how  absurd 
it  all  was,  how  petty. 

Presently  the  elder  Trevor  girl  said  something  in  an  under- 
tone, and  her  sister  gave  a  short  laugh.  They  began  to  talk  in 
Italian,  rapidly  and  with  animation. 

Constance  felt  her  face  growing  hot.  She  did  not  under- 
stand one  word  of  what  they  were  saying,  but  it  was  their 
assuming  the  fact  that  she  would  not  understand  them  that 
made  it  sound  like  fluent  and  cultured  mockery. 

It  cost  her  an  effort  to  close  her  book,  get  up,  and  walk  out 
of  the  shelter  with  an  air  of  casual  naturalness.  Nor  had  she 
walked  ten  yards  before  she  heard  the  Trevors  revert  to  mere 
English. 

She  was  angry,  humiliated,  and  yet  inspired. 

"Dick,  I  want  to  have  French  and  Italian  lessons  here. 
May  I?" 

She  had  found  him  reading  a  paper  in  a  corner  of  the 
half-empty  lounge. 

"Anything  you  like,  Melisande." 


342  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Dick,  I  still  feel  a  fool.  I  am  going  to  work,  and  work 
furiously." 

"It's  good  to  see  you  keen." 

"Yes,  I  am  keen — bitterly  keen.  We  have  to  go  about  armed 
in  life,  haven't  we?" 

She  did  not  tell  him  what  had  suddenly  made  her  so  fierce 
and  eager  to  learn. 


CONSTANCE  began  to  detest  the  Hotel  Magnifique.  It 
was  so  dull  and  ornate  and  pompous,  and  inhabited  by  people 
who  struck  her  as  being  only  half  alive,  people  who  had 
dawdled  comfortably  through  life,  and  who  had  never  been 
desperately  keen  about  anything.  They  represented  the  crystal- 
lisation of  class  prejudices,  regular-featured  good  form  taking 
shape  in  a  solution  saturated  with  selfishness.  The  lives  of  the 
unattached  women  appeared  to  be  one  perennial  grumble.  A 
coterie  of  old  military  men  and  their  wives  spent  most  of  its 
time  abusing  the  food.  Only  once  had  Constance  dared  to 
touch  the  piano  in  the  great  desert  of  a  salon,  and  then  the 
sound  of  her  own  voice  had  almost  shocked  her.  Persisting  in 
singing  she  had  succeeded  in  ejecting  two  solitary  women  who 
had  been  doing  fancy  work  in  two  separate  corners.  They  had 
disappeared  like  shy  and  solitary  creatures  who  could  exist 
only  in  regions  of  undisturbed  stagnation. 

Constance  happened  to  hear  one  of  them  remark  next  day 
that  she  did  not  approve  of  the  modern  style  of  song. 

"I  don't  think  they  are  nice.  There  is  such  a  lack  of  self- 
restraint  about  them.  A  sign  of  the  times." 

343 


344  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Poor,  lonely,  shrivelled  souls,  shivering  with  vague  unrest 
when  the  passionate  wings  of  life  stirred  the  air  ever  so  little. 

Constance  had  discovered  a  delightful  old  Frenchwoman, 
who  lived  high  up  in  the  tall  house,  and  gave  French  and 
Italian  lessons.  Constance  went  to  her  daily,  climbing  long 
flights  of  stone  stairs  to  the  old  lady's  single  room,  to  find  her 
younger  and  more  vital  than  most  women  of  thirty.  She  sat 
in  her  plaid  shawl  and  hat  and  wore  mittens.  "I  feel  the  cold 
so,  and  wood  and  coal  are  so  dear,  and  we  have  no  chauffage." 
Yet  she  laughed  and  twinkled  and  rubbed  her  hands,  and 
enjoyed  her  pupil's  tentative  Italian.  Constance  took  her 
flowers,  chocolates  and  fruit.  Madame  Vicari  always  refused 
to  believe  that  she  was  wholly  English. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  you  are  French,  believe  me.  You  have  the 
light  touch,  the  sparkle,  the  style  of  a  Frenchwoman.  You  do 
not  play  games — no.  And  it  is  a  pleasure  to  see  you  walk." 

It  was  when  she  was  returning  from  one  of  these  lessons 
that  Constance  met  the  elder  Trevor  girl  and  the  two  Cottles. 
A  moment  of  illumination  flashed  upon  her.  At  Roymer  she 
had  known  the  young  Cottles  by  sight,  and  she  recognised 
them  instantly — the  more  easily,  perhaps,  because  they  drew 
attention  to  themselves  by  the  impertinent,  man-of-the-world 
amusement  with  which  they  stared  at  her  as  they  approached. 
She  felt  the  focusing  of  three  pairs  of  eyes  upon  her,  and 
knew  she  was  under  discussion.  The  three  assumed  an  air  of 
casual  simplicity  as  they  passed  her  on  the  pavement.  And 
Constance  was  a  little  prouder,  and  even  stronger,  from  that 
moment.  Neck,  insteps  and  figure  were  braced  to  a  finer  and 
more  flexible  temper.  She  seemed  to  see  the  futility  of  letting 
herself  be  troubled  by  such  people — for  snobs  and  fools  need 
never  exist  for  us  if  we  refuse  to  recognise  their  existence. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  345 

Her  dislike  of  the  Hotel  Magnifique  and  its  atmosphere  was 
not  lessened  by  something  that  occurred  on  her  return.  Three 
of  the  Trevors — mother,  father,  and  daughter — were  sitting 
under  one  of  the  big  palms  in  front  of  the  hotel,  and  her  hus- 
band was  standing  talking  to  them.  Keenly  intuitive  by  reason 
of  the  sense  of  antagonism  these  people  inspired  in  her,  she 
could  almost  feel  that  the  Trevors  consented  to  tolerate  Skel- 
ton,  but  that  they  would  not  tolerate  his  wife. 

He  turned,  saw  her,  and  signalled  with  his  eyes. 

"Connie." 

She  saw  what  he  missed — a  momentary  exchange  of  glances 
between  mother  and  daughter,  a  rapid  yet  impressive  uprising, 
and  an  uncompromising  retreat  towards  the  hotel.  The  sur- 
prise was  Skelton's  when  he  turned  to  find  Rowland  Trevor, 
Esq.,  still  in  his  place,  but  deserted  by  his  womenfolk. 

Skelton  was  posed  for  the  moment  by  the  question  that 
suggested  itself.  Was  it  a  coincidence,  or  was  he  to  infer  that 
there  was  a  reason  for  this  rapid  retreat?  He  noticed  a  queer, 
half-amused  light  in  Constance's  eyes. 

"Mr.  Trevor,  let  me  introduce  you  to  my  wife." 

Rowland  Trevor  stood  up,  bowed  stiffly,  and  promptly  sat 
down  again,  as  though  the  ceremony  had  begun  and  ended 
in  one  breath. 

Constance  was  even  more  casual. 

"I  want  to  show  you  something,  Dick.  Can  you  spare  me 
a  moment?" 

He  glanced  at  her  in  surprise,  and  then  at  Trevor,  who  was 
turning  over  the  pages  of  the  Spectator. 

"Yes.  What  is  it?" 

Her  eyes  drew  him  aside,  and  they  strolled  away  along  the 
terrace. 


346  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Well?" 

"Why  did  you  want  to  try  and  introduce  me  to  those 
people?" 

"Try!  Just  because  you  are  too  good  to  know  them." 

"But  I  could  have  told  you.  You  must  have  seen!" 

He  looked  at  her  quickly  with  eyes  that  flashed  out  sudden 
understanding. 

"You  don't  mean  that?" 

"Of  course.  Another  case  of  exclusiveness.  It  seems  that 
some  people  will  allow  themselves  to  speak  to  a  man  when 
they  will  not  speak  to  a  woman." 

She  saw  his  eyes  and  mouth  harden. 

"If  that's  so —  By  George!  for  the  moment  I  did  not  take 
it  in  that  light." 

"They  know  about  me,  Dick." 

"What?" 

"You  know  the  young  Cottles,  of  Roymer?  They  are  down 
here.  I  met  them  this  morning  with  the  other  Trevor  girl." 

She  had  never  seen  him  angry  before — with  the  white 
anger  of  a  man  of  generous  instincts. 

"Damnation  take  these  infernal " 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,  Dick;  it  doesn't  hurt." 

"Hurt!  I'll  go  and " 

"No,  no.  I  can  see  the  humour  of  it.  Oh,  it  was  funny.  I 
made  wilful  advances  the  other  day,  and  was  snubbed.  I  did 
not  tell  you.  They  excluded  me  most  thoroughly  by  beginning 
to  talk  Italian." 

"They  did  that!  Wait  a  moment.  How  can  one  hurt  such 
people?" 

"Dick,  I  think  it's  impossible.  And  does  it  matter?" 

He  swung  round  full  face  to  her. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  347 

"Good  heavens,  no — except  that  it  has  made  me  savage. 
You've  got  the  real  bigness  in  you,  the  bigness  that  is  better 
than  scorn.  We'll  get  out  of  this  superior  atmosphere.  Where 
would  you  like  to  go — on  into  Italy?" 

"I  don't  know.  Let's  think  about  it.  And  let's  go  for  a 
ramble  after  lunch  into  the  hills.  There's  that  mule-path  to 
the  Annonciata.  I  haven't  been  there  yet." 

"Yes,  out  on  the  hills,  up  above  the  sound  of  the  superior 
voices." 

The  mule-path  that  climbs  to  the  convent  of  the  Annonciata 
is  a  grey,  winding  way,  paved  with  grey  cobbles,  doubling  to 
and  fro,  but  ever  ascending.  At  first  it  passes  between  villas 
and  a  hotel  garden,  terraces  and  walls  of  rock  covered  with 
dark  green  trails  of  mesembryanthemum,  yellow  crassula,  and 
climbing  geraniums.  Just  below  the  brown  chalet  stands  one 
of  the  forlorn  little  shrines,  smothered  with  the  yellow  flowers 
and  glossy  green  leaves  of  the  climbing  groundsel.  At  the 
steep  places  Skelton  made  Constance  hold  on  to  his  stick  and 
let  herself  be  pulled  up  by  his  weight.  They  paused  from  time 
to  time  to  look  down  and  back  as  the  town,  the  coast,  the  sea, 
and  the  gardens  and  terraces  were  unfolded.  Sometimes  the 
path  ran  between  vineyard  walls,  or  along  the  edge  of  a  preci- 
pice of  terraces.  They  could  look  down  into  the  Carrei  Valley 
and  see  the  minute  figures  moving  along  the  road  hundreds 
of  feet  below.  Olives,  pines,  and  lemons  clouded  the  grey- 
green  hill-sides.  Masses  of  Mediterranean  heath  were  whiten- 
ing into  flower.  Rosemary  grew  everywhere,  and  the  queer, 
stiff,  thick-stemmed  broom  promised  a  blaze  of  gold. 

Up  above,  the  grey,  bastion-like  entrance  and  the  tall  cy- 
presses of  the  convent  waited.  They  reached  the  steps  at  last, 
and  were  met  at  the  top  by  the  great  wooden  cross  that  stands 


348  THE  WHITE  GATE 

facing  the  south  and  the  sea.  The  convent  terrace,  surrounded 
by  its  low  parapet,  was  silent  and  deserted.  The  monks  had 
gone,  and  the  walls  of  the  chapel  and  the  porch  near  it  were 
scribbled  over  with  dates  and  names.  The  weather  vane  up 
aloft  was  all  awry,  the  bell  had  a  look  as  though  it  never 
moved,  and  tiles  were  falling.  As  for  the  cypresses,  drawn  up 
like  two  rows  of  mutes  upon  the  terrace,  they  bowed  when 
the  wind  blew,  murmured,  and  seemed  to  mutter  prayers. 

Constance  and  Skelton  idled  round  the  terrace  and  found 
various  vantage  points  for  looking  at  the  country  spread 
around,  above,  and  below.  Cap  Martin,  the  sea,  the  hills  above 
Roquebrunne,  the  town  of  Mentone,  Gorbio,  grey  and  dim 
in  the  shadows  of  its  valley,  the  little  white  hotel  and  the 
ruined  castle  of  St.  Agnes,  the  Carrei  and  Borrigo  Valleys, 
Castellar,  a  white  line  above  the  olive  groves,  the  great  grey 
mountains  sharp-edged  against  a  cloudless  sky. 

"One  never  forgets  an  hour  like  this." 

"Not  a  murmur  do  I  hear,  Dick.  I  think  one  should  try 
to  live  on  a  hill." 

"Yes;  but  come  down  into  the  valley  sometimes  to  a  poor, 
irritable,  blaspheming  man." 

"I  shall  often  be  in  the  valley,  Dick,  when " 

"There  are  no  donkeys  braying." 

They  descended  a  flight  of  half-ruined  steps  running  along 
the  side  of  the  convent,  regained  the  mule-path,  and  found 
themselves  at  the  entrance  of  the  Annonciata  Hotel.  A  gate 
opened  between  two  rock  walls,  over  which  mesembryan- 
themum  poured  in  green  waves;  broad,  easy  steps  went  up 
under  a  wooden  footbridge.  This  rocky  entry  opened  upon 
the  hotel  garden,  with  its  palms,  orange  and  lemon  trees,  its 
big  chaume,  or  shelter,  its  quaint  squares  of  grass,  rose  hedges, 


THE  WHITE  GATE  349 

and  its  sunny  view  towards  the  sea.  The  atmosphere  seemed 
of  pure,  ethereal  gold.  Pines  and  olives  covered  the  hill-side 
that  sloped  sharply  from  the  convent.  The  place  had  a  fresh, 
peaceful,  and  calm  aloofness,  poised  upon  the  terraced  hill-side 
and  looking  towards  the  sea. 

"Dick,  isn't  this  delightful?  The  place  looks  so  white  and 
clean  and  wholesome.  And  I  like  all  the  green  shutters." 

"We'll  have  tea  here  in  the  sun." 

"It's  just  the  sort  of  place  I  should  like  to  stay  in.  I  won- 
der  " 

"Whether  we  can  get  a  room?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  go  and  see." 

Skelton  found  an  English  manageress  in  the  little  bureau 
opening  off  the  lounge. 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  any  rooms  vacant?  My  wife  is  so 
pleased  with  the  situation  of  the  hotel  that  she  wants  to  come 
up  here  from  below.  We  are  at  the  Magnifique." 

"Do  you  need  the  first  floor?" 

"Not  a  bit.  I  want  a  good  room,  looking  south." 

"We  have  every  room  taken;  but  there  are  some  people 
leaving  in  three  days,  and  the  people  who  are  to  take  their 
room  have  just  written  saying  they  can't  come.  Would  you 
like  to  see  the  hotel?  Monsieur  Chierico,  the  proprietor,  is 
out." 

"Thank  you;  I  should  like  to  look  round." 

"There  is  the  'funicular,'  you  know,  every  fifteen  minutes. 
So  many  people  think  we  are  isolated." 

"That  has  its  advantages." 

Skelton  walked  out  of  the  bureau  and  nearly  collided  with 
a  tall  man  who  was  buying  stamps  from  the  Swiss  concierge. 


350  THE  WHITE  GATE 

They  exchanged  stares  that  were  followed  by  flashes  of  aston- 
ished recognition. 

"Cunningham!" 

"My  dear  chap!  What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Explain  yourself.  It  must  be  five  years  since  we  met.  I'm 
down  here  with  my  wife." 

"And  I  with  mine.  Never  knew  you  were  married." 

"One  always  does  these  things.  We  just  came  up  here  for 
a  ramble,  and  now  we  want  to  stay." 

"My  dear  chap,  there  is  not  another  place  to  touch  it.  Of 
course  you  must  stay.  Miss  Richer,  I  appeal  to  you,  as  the 
most  considerate  of  women." 

The  manageress  smiled. 

"There  will  be  a  room  vacant  in  three  days,  Mr.  Cunning- 
ham." 

"Splendid.  What  number?  I'll  go  and  put  the  name  on  the 
board  at  once.  I  say,  Skelton,  where's  your  wife?" 

"Sitting  in  the  garden.  I'll  introduce  you  and  then  go  and 
look  round." 

Constance  found  herself  shaking  hands  with  a  tall,  lean, 
sandy-haired  Scot.  The  man  had  a  round,  fresh-coloured  face 
— a  face  that  must  have  belonged  to  a  most  irrepressible 
young  devil  of  a  boy.  His  blue  eyes  still  retained  an  immense 
amount  of  mischief. 

"I  won't  say  how  small  the  world  is,  Mrs.  Skelton,  but  this 
is  really  an  excellent  piece  of  luck." 

She  liked  the  man  from  the  first  glance,  and  trusted  him. 
He  was  fine  metal,  very  much  in  earnest,  but  full  of  fun  in 
the  midst  of  his  earnestness.  The  blue  eyes  were  very  shrewd 
but  kind — eyes  that  were  uncannily  quick  in  detecting  hum- 
bug. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  351 

He  began  to  talk  to  her  in  a  dry,  friendly  way  that  was 
very  charming. 

"All  the  sensible  people  come  up  here  from  below.  My  wife 
and  I  did.  Our  hotel  down  yonder  nearly  reduced  us  to  tears. 
I  had  to  wear  black,  because  I  felt  like  a  mute  at  a  funeral 
when  we  were  putting  the  dinner  to  rest.  What!  You  are  at 
the  Magnifique!  Get  away  from  it  immediately." 

Skelton  came  back  very  well  pleased. 

"I've  settled  it.  Most  sensible  woman  that.  Cunningham, 
have  tea  with  us.  Where's  your  wife?" 

"Gone  for  an  expedition.  But  I'm  equal  to  doing  duty  for 
both." 

"Come  along.  Waiter,  tea  for  three — cakes  and  bread  and 
butter.  Now,  who's  going  to  open  fire  first?  I  have  any 
amount  of  things  to  explain." 

Cunningham  looked  at  Constance  with  one  of  his  shrewd, 
boyish  smiles. 

"I  see — an  event  that  does  not  need  explaining." 

They  found  that  there  was  very  little  ice  to  break. 


Chapter  Forty-one 


•3  OME  places  are  magnetic,  and  the  Hotel  Annonciata  was 
such  a  place.  Not  only  did  it  stimulate  the  vitality  of  its 
guests,  but  it  appeared  to  claim  a  selective  power  over  the 
people  whom  it  attracted.  Almost  wholly  English  in  its  resi- 
dents, it  managed  to  exclude  the  English  spirit  that  charac- 
terised such  a  hotel  as  the  Magnifique.  It  was  higher  and 
healthier,  breathed  a  finer  and  less  conventional  atmosphere. 
You  climbed  to  it,  either  by  the  funicular  railway  or  on  your 
own  legs,  and  the  people  who  are  willing  to  climb  are  less 
likely  to  be  dullards. 

Cunningham  described  the  place  in  his  dry  way  as  "The 
Hill  of  Refuge." 

"Mrs.  Skelton,  there  is  one  thing  you  will  discover  in  life, 
that  the  really  charming  people  segregate,  get  together  instinc- 
tively. I  have  been  here  two  months,  and  I  have  watched  the 
wise  and  the  noble  few  lured  up  here  from  the  lower  town. 
We  are  representative!" 

What  he  declared,  half  in  jest,  was  perfectly  true;  the  Hotel 
Annonciata  was  representative.  Skelton  had  only  to  sit  in  the 

352 


THE  WHITE  GATE  353 

little  smoking-room  for  one  evening  to  discover  men  who  had 
done  things  and  men  who  knew.  The  circle  contained  an  old 
Indian  officer,  who  was  also  a  keen  naturalist;  an  English 
banker;  a  professor  from  the  London  University;  a  rising 
artist;  a  young  naval  commander  with  a  reputation  in  the 
"service";  Cunningham  himself,  one  of  the  most  promising 
pleaders  at  the  Scottish  Bar;  a  German  baron,  who  was  no 
amateur  when  he  handled  a  violin.  They  were  workers,  all 
of  them,  and,  like  the  majority  of  men  of  marked  ability, 
full  of  a  wise  playfulness  and  the  fine  good  humour  of  a 
sensitive  understanding.  The  hotel  also  claimed  the  English 
vice-consul,  and  a  very  charming  old  gentleman,  who  was  said 
to  be  a  millionaire  and  who  knew  more  about  the  French 
Riviera  than  could  even  be  found  in  ten  "Baedekers."  As  the 
men  are,  so  are  the  women,  and  as  the  women  are,  so  are  the 
men.  This  double-headed  apothegm  was  true  in  this  particular 
case.  Someone  brought  home  the  most  exquisite  sketches; 
someone  else  sang  till  she  emptied  the  smoking-room  and 
lured  the  men  out  into  the  corridor  to  listen;  someone  else 
was  an  authority  on  local  government  and  education,  with- 
out appearing  to  be  an  authority  on  anything.  There  was  no 
snobbery  or  sheepish  aloofness.  A  feeling  of  friendliness  per- 
vaded the  hotel.  It  was  more  like  a  very  pleasant  and 
well-chosen  house-party  than  a  chance  assortment  of  people 
who  had  gathered  there  haphazard. 

As  Cunningham  put  it,  Cunningham  who  had  been  sent 
abroad  for  three  months  to  recover  from  overwork,  "We  exer- 
cise ourselves  up  here,  and  don't  stodge  and  overfeed.  Chierico, 
the  proprietor,  is  a  gentleman,  and  a  jolly  nice  fellow.  That 
counts.  We  seem  to  get  people  here  who  are  alive,  and  it's 
good  to  be  among  people  who  look  at  something  beside  their 


354  THE  WHITE  GATE 

plates  and  their  bridge  hands.  And  then,  you  see,  so  many  of 
us  are  Scots." 

He  spoke  with  understanding.  The  professor  was  a  Scot; 
so  was  the  delightful  old  gentleman  who  could  remember 
Monte  Carlo  before  it  was;  so  was  his  valet;  so  was  the  Indian 
general;  so  was  the  lady  who  brought  home  sketches  of  olives 
and  cypresses,  anemones,  green  herbage,  oranges,  and  blue  sea. 
Half  the  hotel  was  Scotch — not  the  dour,  trap-mouthed  Scotch 
as  pictured  by  the  English,  but  a  shrewd,  lovable,  playful 
breed,  quick  of  wit  and  full  of  a  bracing  kindliness. 

"Mrs.  Skelton,  you  know  we  Scots  have  no  sense  of 
humour." 

"So  I  have  always  heard — in  England." 

"We  say  the  same  thing  in  Scotland  about  the  English! 
I  suppose  it  is  because  we  don't  put  inkpots  on  doors  and 
scream  when  someone  comes  through  and  gets  smudged. 
We're  dry  bodies,  like  good  champagne." 

Skelton  laughed  at  him. 

"Of  all  the  cheeky  young  beggars  I  ever  remember  I  think 
you  were  the  cheekiest." 

"Come,  now,  could  I  ever  have  looked  cheeky?  Mrs.  Skel- 
ton, I  appeal  to  you." 

"I  think  my  husband  is  always  reasonable." 

"Mrs.  Skelton,  let  me  warn  you  against  perpetuating  the 
ancient  superstition.  Be  a  new  woman.  Disagree  with  your 
husband." 

"But,  you  see,  I  generally  find  that  he  is  right!" 

Cunningham  looked  at  her  with  dour,  covenanting  so- 
lemnity. 

"My  dear  lady,  there  is  no  hope  for  ye,  no  hope  at  all.  My 
wife  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  preserve  her  individuality  that 


THE  WHITE  GATE  355 

she  disagreed  with  me  daily,  on  every  possible  topic,  all 
through  our  honeymoon." 

"It  must  have  done  you  a  great  deal  of  good,  Davie.  Your 
wife  must  be  a  woman  of  penetration." 

"Now,  I  ask  you,  are  these  the  words  of  a  long-lost  friend?" 

It  was  a  vivid  change  from  the  blight  of  the  Hotel  Mag- 
nifique  to  the  stimulating  atmosphere  of  this  most  friendly 
and  unpretentious  of  places.  It  reminded  Constance  of  the 
life  at  the  Villa  Prosperine,  with  the  additional  delight  of 
new  comradeships  and  a  new  interplay  of  individualities. 
The  repose  and  the  aloofness  of  the  hill-side  were  magical. 
It  was  an  experience  to  get  up  early,  swing  the  shutters  open, 
and  let  in  the  yellow  sunlight,  and  perhaps  see  Corsica,  far 
and  faint  over  a  purple  sea.  The  empty  convent  had  its  own 
peculiar  fascination.  So  had  the  mule-paths  that  climbed  on 
past  the  hotel  and  along  the  ridge  of  the  hill,  gliding  along 
by  the  walled  vine  terraces  and  under  the  shade  of  olives.  It 
was  very  pleasant  to  lie  out  in  the  chaume  and  dream  or  talk 
to  some  new  friend,  with  bees  humming,  and  the  scent  of 
wallflowers  drifting  in,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  hill  and  valley 
making  the  outlook  rich  and  generous.  The  slanting  lights  of 
the  sunset  were  very  wonderful,  and  when  the  sun  had  gone 
the  mountains  were  black  as  jet  against  a  steel  grey  sky.  To 
see  the  full  moon  rise  out  of  Italy  was  a  study  in  ebony  and 
silver  never  to  be  forgotten.  Even  the  multitudinous  croak- 
ing of  multitudinous  frogs  at  night  was  full  of  a  weird  exul- 
tation. 

In  a  week  Constance  felt  as  much  at  home  in  the  place  as 
if  she  had  been  there  three  months.  Everybody  seemed  inter- 
ested in  life  and  ready  to  enjoy  it.  She  talked  French  with 
Monsieur  Chierico,  the  proprietor,  and  was  full  of  naive  sur- 


356  THE  WHITE  GATE 

prise  when  she  discovered  that  though  he  kept  an  hotel  he  was 
a  courtier  and  a  gentleman,  that  he  knew  more  about  music 
and  art  than  most  of  the  critics,  and  that  his  delicacy  and 
tactfulness  would  have  made  most  Englishmen  seem  boors. 

She  confessed  to  Cunningham  that  she  had  had  other  views 
upon  hotel  proprietors,  and  he  gave  her  one  of  his  dry  smiles. 

"The  English  are  a  commercial  nation.  That  explains  a 
great  deal.  It  is  not  a  bad  idea  that  a  gentleman  should  run 
an  hotel!  It  is  eminently  successful  here.  Chierico's  a  gentle- 
man to  his  finger  tips,  and  somehow  you  feel  it  about  the 
place." 

"Yes.  Of  course,  when  one  comes*  to  think  of  it " 

"One  prefers  staying  with  a  gendeman,  and  when  the 
house  happens  to  be  an  hotel  one  appreciates  the  breeding 
of  the  man  who  keep  it.  If  I  wanted  to  send  my  sister  to  a 
masked  ball  at  Nice,  I'd  send  her  with  Chierico.  He'd  have 
more  tact  and  understanding  than  any  Englishman.  But  fancy 
telling  some  of  your  good  people!  It's  best  to  leave  them  with 
their  blinkers  on." 

She  talked  to  the  authority  on  local  government,  and  was 
impressed  and  interested  without  feeling  crushed.  She  was 
teased  and  flirted  with  by  the  Indian  general,  and  taken  for  a 
drive  to  San  Remo  by  the  old  Scots  gendeman  with  the  Scots 
valet.  In  fact,  she  found  herself  indefinably  and  unexpectedly 
popular,  and  a  recipient  of  the  devotion  of  one  or  two  of  the 
younger  girls.  They  came  and  asked  her,  impulsively  and 
confidentially,  about  dress,  and  she  blushed  at  finding  herself 
considered  an  expert. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Skelton,  you  seem  to  know  just  what  to  wear. 
Do  come  down  and  help  me  choose  a  hat." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  357 

Someone  else  was  in  distress  about  the  arranging  of  her 
hair. 

"I  know  I  make  myself  look  a  worse  fright  than  I  am. 
It  seems  to  grow  all  the  wrong  way.  It  would  be  so  sweet  of 
you  if  you  would  tell  me  what  you  think." 

Constance  spent  an  hour  in  the  girl's  bedroom,  experiment- 
ing with  a  head  of  coarse  black  hair  that  persisted  in  running 
into  hard  wiry  streaks.  There  was  a  big  round  forehead,  too, 
to  be  softened.  The  girl  was  delighted  with  the  result. 

"I  look  quite  different.  What  taste  you  have!" 

The  hotel  discovered  that  Skelton's  wife  could  play  and 
sing,  and  every  evening  a  little  deputation  waited  on  her,  with 
David  Cunningham  contriving  to  act  as  spokesman. 

"Mrs.  Skelton,  I  am  requested  humbly  to  petition  that  you 
sing  us  the  'Kashmiri  Love  Songs.' " 

People  would  gather  in  the  recreation-room,  sit  round,  and 
listen.  It  was  no  formal  affair,  but  so  much  unaffected  appre- 
ciation and  enjoyment.  The  professor  always  retained  an  arm- 
chair near  the  piano,  and  he  would  ask  her  to  sing  songs  that 
were  popular  thirty  years  ago,  and  she  was  always  distressed 
when  she  had  to  confess  that  she  did  not  know  them.  He 
struck  her  as  a  lonely  soul,  a  man  who  had  lost  someone  who 
had  been  very  dear  to  him.  He  still  seemed  a  little  lost  and 
bewildered,  groping  to  get  back  somewhere  into  the  past. 
She  discovered  at  last  that  she  had  one  song  that  said  some- 
thing to  him:  Tennyson's  "Tears,  idle  tears,"  set  to  music. 
She  sang  it  for  him  every  evening,  and  he  would  give  her 
a  grave,  shy  look  of  gratitude. 

It  was  at  the  Hotel  Annonciata  that  she  came  by  what  she 
had  long  desired,  a  woman  friend,  someone  to  whom  she 
could  talk  as  a  woman.  David  Cunningham's  wife  was  a 


358  THE  WHITE  GATE 

black-haired  little  woman,  with  the  face  of  a  gipsy.  She  took 
to  Constance  from  the  very  first  day.  Impulsive  and  yet  ut- 
terly reliable,  the  only  child  of  a  rich  man,  and  yet  absolutely 
unspoilt,  a  keen  worker  with  a  very  shrewd  knowledge  of 
life,  she  was  a  friend  to  be  cherished,  radiant,  wholesome,  full 
of  understanding.  Her  scorn  of  things  which  she  deemed 
contemptible  was  apt  to  be  over-fierce  on  occasions. 

It  was  on  an  expedition  to  Gorbio  that  Constance  and  Jean 
Cunningham  came  very  near  to  each  other  as  friends.  They 
were  riding  donkeys,  the  two  husbands  walking  on  ahead, 
the  donkey-woman,  with  her  blue  apron  and  flat  straw  hat, 
trudging  in  the  rear.  The  hot,  winding  road  climbed  slowly 
northwards,  and  behind  them  the  V  of  the  valley  was  filled 
with  the  intense  blue  of  the  sea.  A  gusty  wind  blew  spasmodi- 
cally, making  the  great  reeds  sway  and  rusde. 

Skelton  stopped  to  point  out  a  house  where  the  road  was 
overhung  by  trees. 

"Something  ought  to  have  happened  there.  It  is  like  a  bit 
out  of  Balzac." 

A  short  avenue  of  pollarded  limes  led  to  rusty  iron  gates, 
and  within  stood  a  rusty  iron  rose  arbour.  The  walls  of  the 
house  were  a  faded  red;  pine  needles  and  grass  filled  the  gut- 
ters. The  wild  garden  was  surrounded  by  pines,  cypresses, 
eucalyptus,  oak  and  mimosa,  and  red  roses,  irises  and  bamboo 
grew  on  the  bank  above  the  road.  The  house  and  garden 
were  mysterious  and  forlorn,  secretive,  enigmatical.  Farther 
up  the  road  there  was  a  little  postern  gate  with  a  winding 
path  disappearing  from  it  between  grass  banks  and  shrubs. 
Another  path  passed  down  along  the  vine  terraces  to  where 
the  river  made  a  hoarse  murmuring  as  it  flowed  over  its  rocky 
bed. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  359 

"Yes,  something  ought  to  have  happened  there." 
The  men  went  on  ahead  again,  and  Constance  and  Jean 
Cunningham  resumed  the  telling  of  things  that  can  only  be 
spoken  of  between  the  surest  of  friends.  David  Cunningham's 
wife  suggested  to  Constance  a  sympathetic  and  inviolate  se- 
curity. There  was  never  any  thought  of  improving  the  occa- 
sion, of  dragging  in  the  didactic  and  declamatory  ego.  Con- 
stance felt  that  she  could  say  anything,  and  that  she  would 
be  understood,  and  so  Jean  Cunningham  had  come  to  hear  of 
the  life  at  Roymer,  and  the  life  of  the  days  before  Roymer, 
and  of  all  the  dubious  memories  that  had  haunted  and  perse- 
cuted a  sensitive  child. 

The  road  to  Gorbio  might  have  been  a  road  of  healing 
when  the  full  suggestiveness  of  its  beauty  was  considered. 
Life  leapt  out  at  the  wayfarer,  crying,  "Live,  enjoy,  be  healed." 
They  passed  an  orange  grove  where  peasants  in  blue  trousers 
were  heaping  up  yellow  oranges  on  a  patch  of  intensely  green 
grass  under  the  trees.  Farther  along  the  road  the  banks  were 
starred  with  purple  anemones  and  grape  hyacinths,  and  there 
was  one  spot  where  violets  growing  in  a  garden  perfumed 
the  road  for  more  than  fifty  paces.  They  struck  the  grey  mule- 
path  that  climbed  upwards  under  shimmering  olives,  the 
rough  rock  terraces  looking  like  the  walls  of  ancient  citadels. 
The  torrent  hurried  from  side  to  side  in  the  trough  of  the 
valley,  running  between  hazels,  willows  and  great  reeds.  Here 
and  there  the  wheel  of  an  olive  mill  could  be  seen.  Fly- 
catchers flitted  to  and  fro  over  the  water.  On  a  stone  seat 
by  the  doorway  of  a  ruined  house  they  saw  a  locust  sunning 
itself  where  tree-spurges  spread  their  cups  of  gold,  each  set 
with  a  little  Maltese  cross.  Above  them  were  the  forest  slopes, 


360  THE  WHITE  GATE 

and  presently  Gorbio  stood  out  like  a  grey  casket  on  its  coni- 
cal hill. 

Constance  had  begun  to  talk  of  the  Hotel  Magnifique  and 
of  the  type  of  people  to  be  met  there,  especially  such  people 
as  the  Rowland  Trevors. 

"It  seems  absurd  to  talk  of  such  things  out  here.  But,  you 
know,  I  am  not  at  all  wise.  I  have  pretty  quick  intuitions,  but 
I  began  to  wonder  whether  all  English  people  are  like  that." 

Jean  Cunningham  was  amused. 

"You  need  not  worry  your  head  about  that  sort  of  people. 
They  don't  count  in  life.  You  will  be  workers,  you  and  your 
husband." 

"Of  course." 

"I  can  always  get  into  touch  with  people  who  work.  It  is 
the  rich  dilettante  type  that  strikes  me  as  so  hopeless.  They 
have  no  proper  knowledge  of  values." 

"You  see,  Dick  will  be  a  very  famous  man  some  day. 
I  feel  sure  of  it." 

"Keep  on  feeling  sure." 

"Yes,  but  it  has  worried  me:  the  thought  that  I  might  keep 
him  back,  that  life  might  take  us  along  with  people  like  the 
Trevors,  and  that  they  would  not  want  me." 

"My  dear,  do  you  think  your  husband  would  ever  make 
friends  of  fools  with  a  lot  of  money,  a  little  decorative  in- 
formation, and  an  infinite  burden  of  conceit?  I'm  rich  myself, 
so  I'm  not  sneering  at  the  mere  money.  Your  friends  won't 
lie  in  that  direction." 

"I  want  to  know  the  real  people,  the  best." 

"What  is  there  to  worry  about?  With  the  real  people  you 
count  for  what  you  are.  Besides,  you'll  be  popular,  you've  a 
personality,  and  no  affectation.  It's  so  easy  to  get  on  with 


THE  WHITE  GATE  361 

the  best  people,  the  people  who  do  things  and  who  count. 
It's  the  half-and-half  people  who  are  difficult.  You  will  soon 
learn  that." 

"I  suppose  it  is  so." 

"About  the  most  understanding  and  unassuming  man  I 
know  is  our  leading  physician  up  in  Edinburgh.  Yes,  there 
are  dozens  I  could  mention,  the  keen  yet  kindly  men  and 
women  blessed  with  brains  and  a  sense  of  humour.  But  these 
cultivated  idlers,  they  are  not  good  enough  to  come  into  a 
worker's  life." 

They  were  on  the  last  slope  of  the  grey  mule-path  to  Gor- 
bio,  and  urchins  came  stampeding  down  and  demanding  pen- 
nies. Cunningham  stopped  and  addressed  them  with  intense 
solemnity  in  broken  French. 

"Gentlemen  of  Gorbio,  I  do  not  believe  in  indiscriminate 
charity.  We  come  here  to  see  your  town,  not  to  subsidise  in- 
fant beggars.  Get  out." 

The  boys  flung  epithets  as  soon  as  they  saw  that  no  pennies 
were  forthcoming. 

Jean  Cunningham  studied  them  with  her  steady  eyes  as 
they  came  clamouring  round  her  donkey. 

"Don't  you  know  I'm  Scotch!" 

"Penny,  madame,  penny." 

"No.  You  are  little  beasts  with  no  manners.  I  don't  like 
you  at  all." 

They  did  not  understand  a  word  she  said,  but  her  way  of 
saying  it  depressed  them.  Yet  they  threw  a  few  offensive  epi- 
thets after  her  by  way  of  asserting  their  independence. 

"Little  idiots!  Up  here  they  haven't  even  learnt  the  art  of 
humbugging.  I'd  have  thrown  them  something  if  even  one 
had  shown  a  little  human  cleverness.  But  to  be  blackmailed 


362  THE  WHITE  GATE 

by  dirty,  impudent  children  without  even  a  twinkle  in  an 


eye " 

The  donkey-woman  came  up  and  apologised. 

"They  are  little  pigs,  madam;  they  have  not  the  sense  to 
have  good  manners." 

Which  was  a  very  wise  and  subtle  saying. 


JL  O  WARDS  the  end  of  their  second  week  at  the  Hotel  An- 
nonciata  Skelton  received  a  letter  from  John  Cuthbertson: 

DEAR  OLD  MAN, — I  don't  want  to  hurry  you  and  your  wife 
home,  but  I  find  that  you  are  wanted  here  pretty  badly.  Some  of 
the  big  people  have  been  asking  questions  that  I  am  not  wholly 
competent  to  answer,  and  there  are  one  or  two  constructive  details 
that  are  puzzling  us  a  little.  We  are  arranging  for  a  state  demon- 
stration day  down  at  Harpenden  for  May  ist.  I  believe  we  are 
likely  to  get  some  of  the  Government  people,  so  you  can  under- 
stand that  I'm  anxious  to  have  everything  working  perfecdy. 

Skelton  was  touched  by  the  letter. 

"Poor  old  John,  what  a  strong,  patient,  unselfish  beggar  you 
are.  You  have  been  shouldering  everything  for  six  months. 
I'll  be  with  you  in  ten  days." 

He  did  not  immediately  show  Cuthbertson's  letter  to  Con- 
stance, for  they  had  a  gay  week  ahead  of  them,  and  he  wanted 
her  to  enjoy  it  to  the  full,  with  no  background  but  the  sunny 
southern  scene.  They  were  going  to  a  masked  ball  at  the 
Casino,  and  Constance's  dress  was  being  made  at  Monte 

363 


364  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Carlo  for  a  figure  that  suggested  work  in  the  near  future. 
The  Cunninghams  had  arranged  several  expeditions — a  long 
motor  drive,  a  donkey  expedition  to  Eze,  and  a  steamer  trip 
to  San  Remo. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  carnival  procession  The  Annonciata 
sent  down  a  party  to  join  the  crowd  in  the  Avenue  Felix 
Faure.  The  charm  of  a  southern  carnival  crowd  is  its  absolute 
good  temper,  and  its  utter  lack  of  any  clogging  self-conscious- 
ness. A  northerner's  first  experience  of  such  a  battle  of  con- 
fetti is  an  experience  so  novel  that  he  finds  himself  wondering 
whether  he  shall  laugh  or  look  stiffly  bored. 

The  carnival  procession  turned  into  the  Place  St.  Roch, 
King  Carnival — as  a  boxer — riding  on  the  Ass  of  Gorbio,  with 
the  blaring  band  in  the  car  behind  him  playing  the  provoca- 
tive carnival  tune.  The  wide  space  here  was  full  of  laughing, 
good-humoured,  confetti-throwing  humanity.  The  blare  of 
the  band  splashed  to  and  fro  between  the  houses;  the  con- 
fetti sellers  shouted;  little  skirls  of  laughter  eddied  up  from 
combative,  colour-smothered  groups.  The  carnival  figures 
themselves  were  infinitely  clever;  there  was  a  touch  of  wit 
behind  the  pasteboard  and  paint.  Some  were  satirical,  others 
delightfully  ridiculous,  a  few  broadly  suggestive.  A  crowd  of 
huge  babies  went  bobbing  by,  howling,  weeping,  laughing, 
gyrating,  bumping.  There  was  a  gigantic  lady  with  a  ruddy, 
beaming  countenance  who  marched  boldly  without  petticoats 
in  white  lingerie,  and  a  dude  who  followed  studying  through 
an  eye-glass  the  points  of  the  lady's  lace.  Groups  of  masked 
dominoes  went  dancing  by,  twittering,  laughing,  skipping, 
figures  in  pink  and  yellow,  white  and  green,  scarlet,  blue, 
black  and  gold.  A  line  of  Chasseurs  with  linked  arms  danced 
and  swayed  and  kicked  in  unison.  The  decorated  cars  rumbled 


THE  WHITE  GATE  365 

by,  pelting  the  crowd.  The  people  in  carriages  were  smoth- 
ered, if  the  women  had  any  pretensions  to  good  looks.  The 
military  band  by  the  tramway  shelter  kept  the  music  moving, 
and  the  sellers  of  confetti  shouted  furiously. 

Skelton,  who  had  started  the  afternoon  in  an  objective 
mood,  had  the  English  aloofness  driven  out  of  him  by  a  couple 
of  little  dominoes  in  pink  who  singled  him  out,  and  showed 
no  mercy.  He  dodged  and  laughed,  only  to  find  that  it  was 
imperative  he  should  keep  his  mouth  shut. 

"Mes  charmants,  je  suis  impuissantl" 

"Monsieur  I' Anglais,  voila  la  confetti!" 

He  retreated  with  Constance  to  a  confetti  stall,  bought  a 
couple  of  linen  bags,  and  had  them  crammed  with  ammuni- 
tion. 

They  fought  the  two  pink  dominoes,  and  were  taken  in 
the  rear  by  a  party  of  German  youths  and  girls  who  were 
absolutely  hysterical.  Cunningham  and  the  Annonciata  people 
joined  in  and  created  a  diversion.  The  roadway  was  getting 
ankle-deep  in  pink,  blue,  and  mauve  snow,  and  everybody  was 
laughing. 

Skelton  had  to  rescue  Constance,  who  was  being  pelted 
by  a  couple  of  Frenchmen,  one  of  whom  was  deftly  stuffing 
confetti  inside  her  veil. 

Skelton  joined  in  with  such  spirit,  and  threw  with  such 
strenuosity  and  at  such  close  quarters,  that  he  inadvertently 
smacked  one  of  the  Frenchmen  in  the  face. 

"Mille  pardons,  monsieur;  I  say,  I'm  awfully  sorry,  I  hope 
I  haven't  hurt  you." 

The  Frenchman  laughed  good-humouredly. 

"Non,  non;  it  was  ac-cee-dent." 

They  bowed  to  each  other,  and  took  off  their  hats. 


366  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"You  are  a  sportsman,  sir." 

"Monsieur,  eet  was  nothings." 

A  party  of  English  from  some  hotel  swarmed  up  and 
attacked  Cunningham's  people  who  were  replenishing  stores 
at  a  stall  in  front  of  Cook's.  All  the  sedate  and  respectable 
folk  appeared  to  have  gone  playfully  and  furiously  mad. 
Two  quiet-looking  elderly  women  in  black  singled  out  Skel- 
ton  and  gave  him  a  warm  time. 

It  was  such  a  new  experience  throwing  handfuls  of  coloured 
paper  into  the  faces  of  gentlewomen  who  might  have  been 
the  most  sedate  of  aunts  that  the  provocative  quaintness  of 
the  thing  made  him  laughingly  helpless.  He  was  smothered 
with  pink  and  mauve  confetti.  It  was  in  his  mouth,  his  ears, 
his  hair,  down  his  collar,  in  his  pockets,  scattered  on  his 
shoulders,  and  lying  in  drifts  upon  the  brim  of  his  hat. 

Constance  came  to  succour  him,  but  a  drifting  of  the  crowd 
carried  the  two  festive  elderly  women  away.  Skelton,  looking 
round  for  Cunningham,  happened  to  see  five  very  tall  people 
standing  in  a  row  with  their  backs  to  Cook's  window  and 
watching  this  absurd  crowd  of  grown-up  children  with  an 
air  of  cold  and  superior  amusement. 

"Connie." 

She  too  saw  the  Trevors,  and  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"The  gods  have  descended  from  Olympus  to  watch  mortal 
fools  at  play!" 

The  Olympians  stood  stiffly,  unblinkingly,  without  a  glim- 
mer of  a  smile.  Rowland  Trevor  was  the  only  one  whose 
dignity  suffered. 

"There  is  a  piece  of  the  stuff  in  my  eye,  Helena." 

"Rowland,  dear,  let  me  get  it  out  for  you.  Lend  me  your 
handkerchief.  These  bourgeois  idiots!" 


THE  WHITE  GATE  367 

"I  think  we  might  get  out  of  the  crowd." 
"Take  my  arm,  dear." 

They  left  the  barbarians  at  play,  the  father  of  the  Olympians 
still  dusting  confetti  from  his  waistcoat. 

About  nine  o'clock  everybody  assembled  in  the  lounge  to 
see  Constance  come  down  in  her  bal  masque  dress.  Jean  Cun- 
ningham was  acting  as  lady's  maid,  and  two  or  three  of  the 
girls  had  begged  to  be  allowed  to  see  the  mysteries  of  a  bal 
masque  toilet.  The  two  chambermaids  were  waiting  in  the 
corridor,  full  of  feminine  curiosity,  and  Skelton,  an  outcast 
and  an  Ishmaelite,  had  taken  refuge  in  Cunningham's  bed- 
room, to  disguise  himself  at  his  leisure.  He  was  going  as  a 
Red  Cross  knight  in  silver  grey  hauberk  and  red  surcoat. 

"I  say,  old  man,  anything  to  suggest?  I  shall  be  jolly  hot 
in  this  get  up." 

"You  needn't  dance;  in  fact,  you  look  too  impressive  to 
dance.  All  you  have  got  to  do  is  stand  in  a  corner  with  a 
melancholy  Byronic  look,  with  your  sword  set  so,  and  your 
hands  resting  on  the  pommel.  I'll  pose  you." 

"How  the  devil  is  one  to  carry  any  money  or  to  get  at  it 
under  these  affairs?" 

"Here's  a  little  leather  purse  business  on  your  sword  belt. 
It  was  a  considerate  soul  who  sent  this  costume  out." 

They  heard  Jean  Cunningham's  voice  outside  the  door. 

"I  want  some  hairpins,  David." 

"Can't  this  poor  wretch  be  allowed  one  safe  corner?  You 
women  seem  to  want  a  British  Museum  to  dress  in." 

"Be  quick.  Connie  is  ready.  Your  wife  is  ready,  Mr.  Skel- 
ton." 

"Mrs.  Cunningham,  I'm  shy;  I  daren't  emerge." 


368  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"Are  you  ready?" 

"Let  me  practise  swaggering  in  front  of  the  glass  for  a 
minute." 

"I  think  you'll  forget  all  about  yourself  when  you  see  your 
wife." 

It  was  quite  true;  he  did.  An  airy,  gossamer-like  creature 
dressed  as  a  premiere  danseuse  came  stepping  down  the  cor- 
ridor towards  him.  The  two  chambermaids  were  ecstatically 
inarticulate.  The  dress,  with  its  short  belled  skirt,  was  made 
of  some  shimmering,  ice-blue  stuff,  like  the  wing  of  a  dragon- 
fly, iridescent  and  diaphanous.  Two  frail  fairy  wings  glim- 
mered between  her  shoulders.  The  slim  legs  in  white  silk 
stockings  ended  in  the  most  perfect  of  ankles  and  the  most 
exquisite  white  satin  shoes. 

The  maids  were  ravished  by  these  details:  "Les  petit es 
jambes!" — "Ah,  madame,  les  pieds  exquisl" 

Her  dark  hair  was  dusted  with  some  silvery  powder  and 
set  with  brilliants,  and  her  face  had  a  coy  and  excited  colour, 
a  shy  and  half  mischievous  bloom  that  was  very  alluring. 

Skelton  stood  astonished.  Never  before  had  he  realised  so 
vividly  the  ethereal  physical  beauty  of  his  wife.  She  looked 
like  a  delightful  child  in  this  filmy  dress,  with  her  finely 
turned  ankles  and  little  feet,  her  long  slim  hands  and  deli- 
cately moulded  forearms.  Not  one  woman  in  a  thousand  could 
have  worn  such  a  dress  and  carried  it  off  so  convincingly. 
And  in  a  flash  he  saw  her  contrasted  with  what  she  had  been 
six  months  ago — the  pale,  elusive  girl  brooding  by  the  black 
water  of  that  pool  deep  in  Rusper  fir-woods. 

He  made  her  a  very  stately  bow. 

"Madam,  I  am  your  first  male  victim." 

She  had  looked  at  him  with  just  a  shade  of  anxiety. 


THE  WHITE  GATE  369 

"You  don't  think  it  is  too  bold,  Dick?" 

"Remember,  you  are  just  twelve  to-night.  It  is  incredible, 
but  true!  No  one  thinks  of  asking  a  firefly  whether  it  is  quite 
proper,  eh?" 

"Come  down  with  me  and  help  me  to  carry  it  off." 

"My  dear,  someone  will  carry  you  off  unless  I  am  on  the 
alert." 

Constance  floated  down  into  the  lounge,  Skelton  carrying 
her  white  cloak  and  black  velvet  mask.  She  was  a  little  shy 
and  a  little  flushed,  rather  amused  at  herself  and  at  the  stir 
she  seemed  to  be  creating.  She  looked  so  child-like,  so  spiritual, 
such  an  unworldly  creature,  despite  the  associations  of  her 
dress,  that  even  women,  who  might  have  been  jealous  of 
something  more  fleshly,  were  genuinely  enthusiastic. 

The  general  surveyed  her  with  his  humorous,  worldly,  kind 
old  eyes.  "Bless  my  soul!  I  wish  I  were  thirty  years  younger. 
I  could  dance  then." 

The  professor  had  drifted  up,  and  was  looking  at  her  with 
the  air  of  a  shy  man  examining  some  marvellous  and  delicate 
structure  that  was  far  too  exquisite  to  be  touched.  "That's  it. 
Music." 

Constance  heard  him,  glanced  at  him,  and  he  blushed. 

"It  just  struck  me,  Mrs.  Skelton,  that  I — I  should  call  you 
the  Spirit  of  Music." 

"Bravo!  The  professor  has  it!" 

"I  say,  what  becomes  of  your  wings,  Titania,  when  you 
put  on  your  cloak?" 

"Oh,  they  fold  up." 

"Modest,  sly  appendages.  Skelton,  my  dear  chap,  you  will 
want  that  sword  of  yours  to  overawe  enthusiastic  mortals!" 

Monsieur  Chierico  appeared  from  the  bureau,  and  the  eyes 


370  THE  WHITE  GATE 

of  the  French  gentleman  and  man  of  discrimination  flashed  a 
vivacious  homage.  "Madame  Skelton,  you  will  cause  a  riot.  A 
good  riot.  You  will  take  a  prize.  Believe  me,  yes,  we  shall 
have  a  triumph!" 

Monsieur  Chierico  was  a  pretty  shrewd  judge  of  what 
would  pique  the  critical  taste  of  the  gay  folk  who  gathered 
at  the  Casino.  From  the  very  first  moment  of  her  entry  into 
the  ball-room  Constance  dawned  as  the  dominant  figure  of 
the  evening — exquisite  youth,  ethereal,  radiant  and  pure.  The 
Red  Cross  knight  who  guarded  her  seemed  part  of  the  al- 
legory. Love  and  life,  desire  and  honour! 

Many  people  took  Skelton's  wife  to  be  a  child  of  fifteen, 
yet,  child  that  she  looked,  she  lured  as  a  light  lures  the  moths. 
One  Frenchman  followed  her  all  the  evening,  and  ever  and 
again  threw  a  flower  at  her  feet  and  called  her  "La  petite 
ange."  Her  pure  charm  had  a  selective,  discriminating  in- 
fluence. 

Skelton,  grave,  Byronic,  imperturbable,  always  there,  yet 
always  a  little  aloof,  watched  the  faces  of  the  men  who  came 
to  pay  homage  and  to  ask  her  to  dance.  The  clean,  manly  ele- 
ment was  attracted  irresistibly.  Only  one  sensual  male  face 
approached  her  the  whole  evening,  and  then  the  Red  Knight 
came  in  between. 

Time  after  time  she  was  whirled  away  from  him,  to  re- 
turn, a  little  out  of  breath,  perhaps,  her  eyes  glimmering 
behind  the  black  mask.  Skelton  did  not  dance,  but  he  liked 
to  watch  other  people  dancing. 

"Dick,  it's  great  fun!" 

"You  are  having  rather  a  gay  time,  you  know." 

"And  you — you  look  so  impressive." 

"I  feel  like  the  Lyceum." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  371 

"The  pierrot  boy  over  there  has  been  trying  so  hard  to 
find  out  who  I  am.  Quite  a  nice  boy,  and  his  shyness  and  his 
curiosity  keep  getting  in  each  other's  way.  And  do  you  know 
the  two  Cottles  are  here?" 

"Yes,  I  caught  the  Cottle  grin  an  hour  ago." 

"One  of  them  has  been  following  me  round." 

"I  don't  know  whether  to  call  that  a  conversion  to  good 
taste  or  mere  impertinence.  If  the  young  man  becomes  a 
nuisance,  I'll  overawe  him." 

Supper  came,  and  with  the  champagne  the  fun  became  a 
little  more  heady  and  exultant.  A  big  Englishman  climbed 
on  a  supper  table  and  solemnly  conducted  the  band  with  a 
long  baton  of  bread.  A  party  of  Spanish  gipsies  cake-walked 
to  and  fro,  and  waltzing  couples  swayed  in  and  out  among 
the  tables.  A  little  Italian,  rather  flushed,  but  wholly  a  gen- 
tleman in  his  fooling,  dashed  up  to  Skelton's  table  and  made 
a  pretence  of  baring  his  bosom. 

"Lord  of  the  Red  Cross,  strike  with  the  sword,  for  I  am 
in  despair  because  of  the  Satin  Shoes." 

He  spoke  good  English.  Skelton  solemnly  touched  him 
with  the  flat  of  his  sword. 

"Live,  Sir  Melancholy.  Are  there  not  Gipsy  Headdresses 
and  Pompadour  PufTs  and  Zouave  Jackets  ?  If  the  Satin  Shoes 
are  not  for  you,  live  for  a  Shepherdess's  Crook." 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  the  Red  Knight 
carried  his  wife  and  her  prize  banner  away  with  him,  her 
tired  wings  folded  under  her  white  cloak.  A  closed  car 
took  them  up  the  Carrei  Valley  and  the  winding  road  to  the 
foot  of  the  funicular  railway  on  the  Annonciata  Hill.  The 
car  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  bottom  of  the  track,  and 
Skelton  had  only  to  switch  on  the  current  and  press  a  button. 


372  THE  WHITE  GATE 

Constance  stood  on  the  front  platform  beside  him,  and  they 
went  gliding  up  past  the  dark  terraces  and  lemon  groves  to- 
wards the  multitudinous  silver  of  the  stars.  It  was  so  still  and 
cool  and  mysterious  here,  and  a  great  hush  seemed  to  cover 
the  world.  The  convent  walls  glimmered  wanly  above  the 
pines  and  olives. 

Monsieur  Chierico,  sleepy  but  debonair,  met  them  on  the 
steps. 

"I  say,  Chierico,  it's  very  good  of  you  to  wait  up." 

"I  sleep  near  the  funicular  room,  and  I  wake.  And  madame 
has  a  banner!" 

"The  banner  of  the  evening.  I  had  to  cut  a  way  out  with 
my  sword." 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Madame  Skelton?  Poor,  unfortunate 
men  will  be  haunting  Mentone  to  try  to  refind  the  winged 
fairy!  Monsieur  Skelton  will  become  proud." 

In  the  lounge  they  found  that  he  had  hot  milk  ready  for 
them. 

"I  think,  Monsieur  Chierico,  you  said  that  you  had  been 
to  sleep!" 

"I  sleep — with  the  one  eye  on  the  spirit  flame.  Madame 
has  given  us  a  triumph.  I  stay  awake  to  say — I  told  you  so." 

Skelton  carried  off  Constance  and  her  banner  to  their  room. 

"Dick,  I  feel  so  sleepy.  I  shall  be  asleep  before  I  can 
undress." 

"Let  me  be  lady's  maid.  Those  fellows  down  there  would 
have  danced  you  to  death  but  for  the  solemn  husband." 

"I  was  proud  of  the  solemn  husband,  and  was  glad  to  get 
back  to  him." 

"I  suppose  I  had  better  start  with  these  wings.  Sit  down. 
It's  rather  like  dismantling  a  Titania." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  373 

She  let  her  head  fall  back  upon  his  shoulder,  and  put  one 
white  arm  over  his  neck. 

"How  very  good  you  have  been  to  me.  I  feel  that  I  have 
been  having  a  wonderful  dream  for  weeks  and  weeks." 

"And  the  waking?" 

"Will  be  as  good  as  the  dream.  But  I  want  to  wake,  Dick, 
I  do  really,  to  our  life — the  real  life." 


Chapter  Forty-three 


JL ET'S  go  to  Castellar,  and  take  our  lunch  with  us  and 
picnic  under  the  olives." 

"Do  you  feel  fit  enough  to  walk  there  and  back?" 

"I  feel  splendid." 

"Right  o'l  I'll  go  down  and  tell  Gustave  to  put  up  lunch 
for  two." 

About  ten  o'clock  they  set  out  along  the  hot  Sospell  road, 
and  crossing  the  Carrei  torrent  by  a  bridge  where  the  main 
road  begins  to  mount  towards  Monti,  they  followed  a  path 
that  led  up  through  the  semi-wild  garden  and  fruit  groves 
of  a  rather  dilapidated-looking  villa.  The  path  had  the  appear- 
ance of  taking  them  into  the  villa's  private  backyard,  and  the 
illusion  was  heightened  by  a  couple  of  curs  who  came  tearing 
out,  snarling  and  snapping  at  Constance's  skirt.  A  woman 
who  was  washing  clothes  at  a  big  water  cistern  called  the 
dogs  off,  and  the  climbers  towards  Castellar  began  to  ascend 
a  cobbled  path  that  led  up  under  olives  and  lemons.  It  was 
lush  ground,  with  water  running  in  little  stone  aqueducts, 
and  the  grass  and  herbage  rich  and  rank  and  painted  with 

374 


THE  WHITE  GATE  375 

flowers.  Violets  grew  everywhere,  and  rock  plants  and  ferns 
filled  the  crevices  of  the  rough  stone  walls. 

The  path  dwindled  to  a  mere  mud  track,  slithered  along 
the  side  of  a  hill,  descended  towards  a  water-hole  where  a 
leap  was  necessary,  and  began  to  climb  again  through  fir 
woods.  The  air  was  hot  and  close  under  the  trees,  and  Skelton 
took  his  coat  off  and  made  Constance  give  him  her  jacket. 

"I  don't  know  who  set  the  fashion  as  to  climbing  in  shirt 
sleeves  down  here?" 

"I  have  generally  noticed  the  Germans  doing  it  on  the 
Annonciata  mule-path!" 

"Well,  it's  good  sense,  anyhow.  The  Germans  are  a  very 
sound  nation." 

The  climb  to  Castellar  was  not  a  conversational  ascent,  the 
steepness  of  the  twisting,  woodland  path  and  the  roughness 
of  the  surface  making  the  breath  a  thing  to  be  hoarded.  For 
a  while  the  path  followed  the  line  of  a  ravine  where  a  stream 
splashed  amid  masses  of  green  foliage  and  the  great  reeds 
swayed  almost  imperceptibly.  Firs  gave  place  to  olives  as 
they  ascended,  the  path  doubling  to  and  fro,  now  slanting 
up  steeply,  now  running  almost  level  for  a  while.  An  old 
peasant  passed  them  with  a  mule  laden  with  olive  wood.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  wished  them  "bon  jour." 

Skelton  made  Constance  pause  from  time  to  time. 

"No  need  to  hurry." 

"I  feel  rather  a  different  creature  from  what  I  felt  like  two 
months  ago.  My  heart  used  to  gallop  when  I  tried  to  walk  up 
the  lane  to  the  Villa  Proserpine." 

"But  you  had  plenty  of  heart  even  then." 

"I  hated  myself  pretty  heartily,  if  that  is  any  test." 


376  THE  WHITE  GATE 

They  heard  the  Castellar  church  clock  striking,  and  Skelton 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  weather-stained  tower. 

"Not  much  farther.  You  have  come  up  in  style." 

"The  higher  you  climb,  the  better  you  feel." 

"That  sounds  like  an  aphorism.  What  about  a  bottle  of 
Asti?  I'll  stroll  on  to  Castellar  and  buy  a  bottle.  What  about 
lunching?" 

"Oh,  under  the  olives — the  same  place." 

Constance  went  with  him  as  far  as  the  little  chapel  and  the 
iron  cross  whence  Castiglione  can  be  seen,  flashing  bare  and 
white  upon  the  far  ridge  of  the  divide.  Skelton  walked  on 
into  Castellar,  leaving  Constance  resting  beside  the  road.  He 
returned  in  ten  minutes,  clutching  an  Asti  bottle  by  the  throat, 
and  carrying  it  for  any  casual  wayfarer  to  see. 

"I've  got  the  scoundrel.  The  gentleman  lent  me  a  tire- 
bouchon,  and  the  wine  was  rather  uppish.  Also,  the  gentle- 
man trusted  me  with  a  glass.  Let's  look  for  our  own  particu- 
lar terrace." 

They  found  it  without  much  trouble,  Skelton  recognising 
an  olive  tree  with  a  queerly  twisted  trunk. 

"Just  look  at  the  violets!" 

"It's  like  having  one's  lunch  in  an  old  Italian  picture,  a 
bit  of  Fra  Angelico." 

"I  don't  think  we  are  angular  and  seraphic  enough  for 
Fra  Angelico." 

"Perhaps  not." 

"Shirt  sleeves— and  a  wine  bottle!  Rather  bourgeois!  Here, 
put  on  your  jacket." 

They  arranged  themselves  under  the  terrace  wall,  with  the 
bottle  of  Asti,  the  glass,  and  the  lunch  packages  between  them. 
There  was  always  an  element  of  excitement  in  opening  these 


THE  WHITE  GATE  377 

luncheon  parcels,  especially  when  two  healthy  people  had  had 
a  stiff  climb. 

"I  wonder  if  Gustave  has  put  dates  in?" 

"Shall  we  bet?" 

"Hallo,  we  have  got  the  extra  special  pdte  sandwiches.  By 
Jove,  I  have  a  hunger!" 

"Aren't  we  a  horribly  material  pair!" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Thank  Heaven  for  a  good,  wholesome, 
greedy  body." 

Their  delight  in  the  atmosphere  of  this  hill  country  was  as 
keen  as  their  hunger.  The  silver-grey  heights,  the  glimmering 
fog  of  olive  foliage,  with  here  and  there  a  distant  cypress 
rising  like  an  exclamation  mark  or  a  silencing  finger  of  awe, 
the  orange  and  lemon  groves  on  the  valley  terraces,  the 
immense  and  solemn  silence  of  the  peaks,  and  the  little  twitter 
of  life  below — all  these  were  unforgettable.  They  could  look 
away  into  sunlit  distances,  or  see  the  light  striking  the  violets 
in  the  grass  around  them,  and  making  the  flowers  glow  like 
scattered  sapphires. 

"A  great  deal  has  happened,  Dick,  since  we  were  here  last." 

"Has  it?" 

"To  me.  I  was  just  beginning  to  live  then,  and  now  life 
seems  to  open  wider  and  wider." 

He  looked  at  her  with  half-closed  eyes. 

"Shall  you  be  sorry  to  go  north  again?" 

"I  could  go  to-morrow." 

"Without  regret?" 

"I  shall  be  a  little  sad,  but  with  such  a  delightful  sadness 
that  makes  the  memories  sacred.  But,  then,  I'm  simply  quiver- 
ing with  curiosity,  with  life  hunger.  Besides " 

"Well?" 


378  THE  WHITE  GATE 

"I  think  we  ought  to  begin  work." 

He  smiled  as  he  felt  in  his  breast  pocket  and  brought  out 
John  Cuthbertson's  letter. 

"A  most  moral  saying,  Melisande.  I  had  this  a  day  or  two 
ago,  but  I  let  the  carnival  spirit  have  full  play.  They  want 
me  rather  badly  in  London." 

He  passed  her  the  letter,  and  saw  her  flush  as  she  read  it. 

"You  ought  to  have  told  me,  Dick.  Why,  it's  such  good 
news." 

"To  you?" 

"Of  course.  They  want  you;  they  can't  get  on  without  you. 
It  feels  like  an  adventure,  all  this  big  thing — life.  What  a  host 
of  absolutely  fascinating  things  there  are  for  us  to  do." 

He  looked  at  her  with  wise  eyes  that  glimmered. 

"You  are  healed;  the  joy  of  life  has  come  to  you;  all's  well 
with  the  world." 

They  lingered  under  the  olives  and  talked,  and  as  they 
talked  the  green  land  set  in  the  grey  northern  sea  began  to 
call  them  irresistibly.  Spring  would  be  flowing  in  there  like 
the  foam  on  the  great  west-coast  billows.  They  could  see  the 
dawn  light  of  the  young  year  flashing  upon  the  granite  lands 
and  flowing  in  ripples  of  gold  up  the  sheltered  valleys.  Prim- 
roses were  out  in  the  woods,  with  the  white  anemones  under 
the  hazels.  The  yellow  gorse  and  the  blackthorn  would  come 
with  the  bluebells,  and  the  great  may  trees  would  pile  snowy 
pavilions  in  fields  of  sheeted  gold.  The  song  of  the  thrush, 
against  the  wet  gold  of  an  April  evening!  The  green  land 
lured  them.  They  saw  it  as  Arthur's  Land,  green  glooms,  and 
mysterious  meres  and  rivers,  shining  through  the  silver  mist 
of  a  summer  dawn. 

"I  shall  have  to  be  in  close  touch  with  Cuthbertson's  works, 


THE  WHITE  GATE  379 

perhaps  for  a  year  or  so.  What  do  you  say  to  a  flat  in  town — 
for  a  year,  at  any  rate?" 

"Do  you  know,  Dick,  I  have  been  to  London  only  about 
ten  times  in  my  whole  life?  And  a  flat  in  town!" 

"It  will  only  be  a  little  one." 

"What  more  do  we  want?  And  we  can  have  old  Mary  as 
our  servant." 

"Excellent  idea.  My  notion  is  to  go  down  Westminster 
way.  That's  Cuthbertson's  haunt,  and  he  has  a  circle.  I  want 
you  to  have  a  circle." 

"A  circle,  Dick?" 

"Of  humans — the  real  people,  the  people  who  work.  I  used 
to  know  all  Cuthbertson's  circle;  I  was  one  of  them;  yes, 
Reynards,  the  artist,  and  his  wife;  old  Trefusis — you'll  love  old 
Trefusis;  Shenstone,  the  architect  and  landscape  gardener; 
Professor  Jerningham,  and  a  dozen  more.  Think  of  it,  no 
snobbery,  no  class  prejudices,  no  social  absurdities.  I  want  you 
to  have  a  circle." 

She  looked  at  him  with  amused  seriousness. 

"Am  I  to  run  a  salon?  And  they  sound  so  terribly  clever!" 

"So  they  are!  So  clever  that  they  know  how  little  they 
know,  so  clever  that  they  can  play  and  be  big  children.  You 
need  not  be  afraid  of  Cuthbertson's  friends.  Nor  are  we  all 
brainy.  We  have  Kershaw,  the  well-known  golfer,  a  dear 
boy  who  can  hardly  add  up  his  own  score;  and  Corberry,  the 
old  rowing  'blue,'  who  is  in  the  War  Office.  Heart  comes  first. 
We  have  no  use  for  prigs  and  information-mongers." 

"Are  there  any  women,  Dick?" 

"Plenty.  All  Cuthbertson's  circle  seem  to  have  been  lucky 
over  their  women,  except  Dodge  of  the  Times.  He  married  a 
county  person  who  was  a  wriggler  and  always  hinting  that 


380  THE  WHITE  GATE 

she  had  fallen  out  of  heaven.  Dodge  got  mad,  and  made  her 
look  a  fool  by  going  off  with  another  woman.  Wrong?  Not 
a  bit  of  it;  she  deserved  it.  It  would  do  thousands  of  women 
a  great  deal  of  good  if  their  husbands  eloped  with  the  house- 
maid. But  you'll  like  our  women.  Some  of  them  are  keen  on 
dress,  some  aren't.  They're  alive.  They've  helped  men,  and 
been  helped  by  men.  No  silly  suburban  smartness  and  snob- 
given  dinner  parties.  Wait  and  see." 

She  smiled  trustfully. 

"If  they  are  like  Jean  Cunningham " 

"Yes,  that's  the  type,  that's  the  woman.  Yes,  and  what 
about  our  week-ends?  We'll  go  up  the  river,  and  out  on  the 
Surrey  hills,  try  a  Sussex  farm-house  now  and  again,  and 
dream  about  in  the  New  Forest.  Town  and  country  for  a 
year.  And  then?" 

She  drew  a  little  closer  to  him. 

"And  then?  Can  you  read  my  thoughts?" 

"Let's  see.  A  little  place  in  the  country,  yet  close  to  town. 
A  garden,  a  first-rate  piano,  a  workshop  for  me,  a  motor — 
Then  one  must  remember  the  people.  There's  the  eternal 
problem!  One  has  to  think  of  one's  future  neighbours.  House 
and  estate  agents  ought  to  issue  catalogues  of  the  local  resi- 
dents, giving  income,  politics,  religion,  and  personal  details. 
Mr.  So-and-So,  respectable  mug;  Mrs.  Etcetera,  dull  and  dog- 
matic; Miss  Ditto,  antivivisectionist  and  local  secretary  for 
the  Society  for  the  Preservation  of  Fleas.  The  thing  is  never 
to  anchor  yourself  till  you  have  looked  round  your  anchorage. 
And  one  has  to  remember  that  the  conventional  bumboat 
women  of  the  little  social  harbours  don't  want  to  deal  with 
any  new,  queer-looking  ships,  any  more  than  we  want  to  buy 
their  provisions.  If  one  can  find  six  households  within  three 


THE  WHITE  GATE  381 

miles  where  the  people  are  not  habitual  fools,  well,  one  can 
manage." 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  laughter. 

"You  sound  so  merciless,  Dick;  I  wonder  I'm  not  afraid 
of  you!" 

"Are  you  on  the  side  of  the  bumboat  women,  the  sort  of 
women  you  met  at  the  Magnifique — 'The  Jabberwock,'  for 
instance,  who  went  to  early  service  regularly,  who'd  never 
done  a  day's  work  in  her  life,  and  who  gnashed  her  teeth  over 
having  to  pay  some  twopenny-halfpenny  tax?  It's  the  blind, 
sanctimonious  insolence  of  such  sorts  of  selfishness " 

"I  want  to  live  with  people  who  look  at  life  honestly." 

"I  tell  you  what.  We  must  found  a  colony  somewhere,  and 
get  a  circle  of  the  understanding,  grown-up  children  together. 
A  collection  of  cranks,  eh?  How  the  dull  people  do  love  that 
word  'crank'  to  throw  at  a  free-mindedness  that  they  do  not 
understand.  It  must  be  a  colony  of  workers.  Work — work!" 

She  reached  out  for  his  hand. 

"Have  you  been  so  badly  starved  these  months,  dear  man? 
And  for  the  sake " 

"I've  been  storing  energy." 

"Oh,  I  understand,  Dick.  I  think  I  shall  always  understand. 
You  are  creative;  life  flows  deep  in  you.  And  I  think  I  can 
help  you  a  little.  A  woman " 

"Well?" 

"Can  create  an  atmosphere,  can't  she?" 

"She  can  make  all  the  difference  between  heaven  and  hell." 

"That's  what  I  mean.  We  can  protect,  save  men  so  much, 
with  the  atmosphere  we  create." 

"And  you  think  that  is  a  sufficient  purpose!  What  about 


382  THE  WHITE  GATE 

feminine  freedom,  her  individual  right  to  develop,  outside 
male  interference,  her  independence?" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  independent,  Dick.  And " 

"And?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  be  independent." 

He  turned  her  face  up  to  his. 

"That's  it.  We  shall  always  be  together,  do  things  together, 
think  things  together.  We're  comrades  in  arms,  and  when  one 
of  us  dies  the  other  won't  want  to  live  long.  Yes,  that's  the 
test.  But  now,  thank  God  for  life — our  life." 


Chapter  Forty-four 


JEAN  CUNNINGHAM  and  her  husband  climbed  up  to 
the  convent  terrace  on  the  night  after  the  Skeltons  had  left 
for  England.  A  full  moon  was  shining,  and  the  shadows  of 
the  cypresses  stretched  sharp  and  black  upon  the  ground.  Far 
below  lay  a  land  of  a  thousand  lights,  a  multitude  of  sparkling 
points,  like  spangles  upon  black  velvet.  There  were  street 
lights,  lights  at  sea,  lights  in  villa  windows,  ladders  of  light 
that  climbed  the  sides  of  some  big  hotel.  They  lay  in  half- 
moons  along  the  edge  of  the  sea,  wound  here  and  there  in 
sinuous  glistening  lines,  or  were  massed  into  star  clusters  and 
little  whorls  of  brilliant  haze.  The  peaks  against  the  northern 
sky  were  silver  grey  in  the  moonlight,  the  valleys  great  glooms 
between  the  hills.  The  night  was  so  clear  that  Bordighera 
stood  like  a  town  of  ivory  upon  the  edge  of  a  sable  sea. 

It  was  very  still  save  for  the  croaking  of  the  frogs  in  the 
water  cisterns.  The  cypresses  might  have  been  carved  out  of 
black  marble,  and  the  olives,  splashed  with  silver,  seemed 
asleep.  David  Cunningham  and  his  wife,  sitting  on  the  para- 
pet, looked  down  at  the  multitude  of  lights  glittering  like  the 
stars  of  a  universe  tacked  to  the  hem  of  the  sea — which  sug- 

383 


384  THE  WHITE  GATE 

gested  infinite  space.  And  for  contrast,  the  croaking  of  the 
frogs  filled  the  night  with  a  kind  of  mocking,  gloating 
hilarity. 

The  Cunninghams  sat  there  and  talked. 

"They  had  a  fine  send-off  to-day.  I  wonder  if  it  will  be  a 
happy  marriage?" 

"Have  you  any  doubts?" 

"None  at  all,  so  far  as  my  experience  counts  for  anything." 

"Most  cautious  of  women!  Yet  you  two  fell  into  each  other's 
arms,  and  as  for  Skelton,  he  is  one  of  the  few  men  one  could 
trust  implicitly." 

"Yes.  So  often  it  is  not  a  case  of  how  to  be  happy  though 
married,  but  how  not  to  be  a  fool.  Why  don't  we  humans 
write  and  tell  the  truth?  We  all  know  that  there  are  a  certain 
number  of  women  who  are  made  to  be  'mistresses,'  and  a 
great  number  of  men  who  can't  help  being  polygamous.  And 
yet  we  insist  on  the  same  harness  for  everybody,  and  act  a  fib 
when  the  traces  break.  Marriage  needs  a  particular  tem- 
perament. How  can  one  expect  fools  to  live  the  most  difficult 
and  complex  and  sensitive  of  lives?" 

"Jean,  old  lady,  we  are  discussing  the  Skeltons,  not  the  mob." 

"They'll  be  happy." 

"Born  comrades.  Besides,  SkeltonV  generous,  and  nothing 
counts  like  generosity." 

"And  she's  a  dear,  the  very  mate  for  him — sensitive,  quick 
as  light,  and  full  of  understanding.  She's  a  marvel,  con- 
sidering." 

"Perhaps  that  accounts  for  it.  She  won't  worry  her  man 
with  silly  little  piques  and  prejudices,  and  spill  all  the  do- 
mestic worries  over  him  directly  he  comes  home." 


THE  WHITE  GATE  385 

"It  sounds  as  though  you  spoke  out  of  the  fullness  of  bitter 
experience." 

Cunningham  rapped  his  heels  meditatively  against  the  wall. 
"They  always  tell  one  not  to  expect  too  much.  It  seems  to 
me  the  thing  is  to  expect  a  very  great  deal  of  the  right  ma- 
terial, and,  what's  more,  to  say  so.  Now,  I " 

"You  stimulated  me  to  re-act  properly!" 

"It's  true.  We  stimulated  each  other.  I  shouldn't  be  the  man 
I  am " 

"Davie,  the  frogs  are  croaking  at  us.  I'm  so  glad  those  two 
dear  people  are  going  to  be  happy." 


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